The Revel
by Rizzle
Summary: Lucius is called to attend a Revel & faces an unexpected surprise in the form of a captured Hermione Granger. To avoid a potential disaster, he makes a life changing decision to help her. If only the silly girl could act just a little bit grateful.
1. Chapter 1

**-1-**

I actually, really, truly, seriously believe that it is possible to die of boredom

I imagine it to be a spectacularly uneventful sort of death. No bang, no dramatic fireworks. Just a quiet slipping-away with nary a _fizz _to mark the end of my inauspicious life.

My boy, Draco, likes to romanticize what it might be like to go out in battle, wand drawn, spells blazing, eyes staring unflinchingly at certain death. I don't recall being that naive when I was his age. Idealistic? Maybe. But never naïve. Draco is old enough now and yet I have not the heart to paint a more realistic picture of what it's like to live this life for as long as I have.

The day began quite innocuously, which in hindsight ought to have been warning enough. Fate has had it in for me from the moment I picked up a wand. Waking up to good news and good weather always puts me in a slightly anxious state. Narcissa never understood my brooding suspicion of sunny days.

I was at my rundown villa in Sardinia, sitting down to a breakfast cooked by my new housekeeper, an attractive, plump, young woman with café latte skin and no discernible gag reflex (always an added bonus in my line of work).

The familiar raven arrived and my appetite promptly fled. It had been six weeks since I last saw Voldemort's messenger bird and I was hoping for an even longer reprieve. I unfurled and read the message as my impressively fat omelette sat untouched on my plate.

A Revel? Surely he must be joking? There hasn't been a Dark Revel in over twenty years. But then Voldemort never jokes. He's tried on a few occasions but we never feel it's safe enough to be genuinely amused.

But back to my impending demise from boredom. I am sitting here, in this, the World's Most Uncomfortable Chair, ankles crossed under this gothic monstrosity of a table. Voldemort, or Death Breath, as my son once called him after a particularly unforgettable close encounter, is doing his best impersonation of a music conductor at the head of our table. We are his macabre orchestra, playing a frenzied tune of terror, obedience and compliant nodding.

It helps that I am about a minute away from being well and truly sotted. This is despite the fact that the beer we're being served tastes like horse piss.

They don't hold Dark Revels like they used to. The grog was much better in my youth. So were the venues. Malfoy Manor, may it rest, hosted several Revels. A few were held at the Goyle mansion (which, like my former home, is now doing its best impression of kindling). Several more were held at lavish Death Eater hideouts where guests sometimes indulged in an entire week of depravity.

That was when Death Eating was glamorous.

These days, not so much.

We are old, tired and most tragically of all, we are apathetic. Apathy is like a cancer. All it takes is one iota of doubt. One small spot of questioning spreads like wildfire in the right conditions. And conditions have been dire indeed. Less than half of us gathered here this evening remain lawful citizens of Wizarding Britain. Only three of us still retain our ancestral homes and property. Apathy corrupts, lays waste to what was once a healthy, red-blooded, youthful zeal. Oh, there are still some of us who recite the words with genuine ardour.

And by some of us, I mean Bellatrix.

Maybe it does require a certain level of madness to keep the faith. Personally, I value my sanity above my ability to please Voldemort. Madness is bad business sense, after all.

I am forty-three years old and I have been serving the Dark Lord for nearly three decades. There is no retirement from being a Death Eater, not even when said Dark Lord vanishes for eleven years without a trace after being felled by a mere infant. Yes, they do tell you about the 'forever' clause when you first join, but show me a seventeen year old that reads the fine print. My service will be complete when I am dead. I aim to live. How ironic that my main goal in life is to do the one thing that continually endangers that very life.

Currently, we are sitting rather apprehensively under half a roof. The apprehension concerns the fact that the other half of the roof looks liable to bury us at the first strong breeze. This ramshackle castle resembles the state of Death Eating today.

I can see stars from where I'm sitting…

I observe old Avery sneak a swig from his personal hip flask. Now that's forward planning, bringing your own drink. He catches my eye, gives me a sheepish look as he grudgingly offers up the flask to me.

I shake my head, preferring to save the fancy stuff for when I'm actually trying to enjoy getting drunk. This weak, lukewarm beer serves its purpose. It warms my extremities and dulls the tartness in my voice when I am inevitably called on to reply to whatever inane comment is thrown my way by my Master.

"Yes, my Lord. Capital idea, my Lord."

His skinny, opaque, clammy-skinned arms gesticulate wildly. Gleaming eyes narrow into slits of concentration. Occasionally, spittle escapes his mouth when he's particularly incensed about something. Voldemort exudes a faint, formaldehyde smell. I sometimes think of him as an energetic zombie, and with roughly the same amount of imagination.

To say I am physically repulsed by Voldemort is putting it mildly.

He's garbling something about Potter now. Oh mercy. This could go on…

No one among Voldemort's ranks attends meetings by choice. We are made to go or face the wrath of a sullen Dark Lord. Now, I don't know about other Dark Lords, but ours gets quite _jabby _with his wand when he's put out. It's all about tradition, you see. He Summons, we drop whatever evil-doing we're in the middle off and Apparate post-haste.

So here we are. More members are arriving, taking their place along the table. The Muggle serving girls bustling around us are a familiar feature at Revels. Professional whores, all of them. One or two are very young. Too young in the trade to grasp fully that this is so much more than an eccentric gentleman's club where the participants play Occult 'dress up'. They are not here to pour our drinks and flatter our manly sensibilities, no matter that this is what they think they are being paid to do.

It really has been a long time. This is a _Revel_, I have to remind myself. And I am a Death Eater. A certain amount of debauchery comes with the territory.

I have witnessed some unseemly things over the years; purposeless acts committed in the name of depravity and opportunity. Some of us utilize Pensieves to expunge potentially destructive memories, but this method has never worked for me.

One cannot (usually) change the past. So I learn from my mistakes, but in most cases, the mistakes of others. Morality has nothing to do with my particular stance towards Revels. Rather, I don't see any value in being needlessly cruel. Sadism erodes the mind's natural rigour. The perpetrator, no matter how thoroughly he washes his hands, never escapes mentally _clean_. It hardly makes fiscal sense, if you think about it. Oh yes, I am a card carrying, self-serving son of a bitch. I have no illusions about what I am capable of, but killing for killing's sake does nothing for me except create a sticky mess that often requires a soapy sponge, a few memory erasing charms and quite possibly bribes, to fix.

Real enjoyment is not on the cards tonight, in any case. None of us can ignore the enormous risk we are taking in simple being here together. It is exceedingly dangerous, given the current climate. There are bounties on our heads, a king's ransom over my own, in fact. Draco takes great delight in telling me. There are one or two exceptions, of course-our moles-well-placed within the Ministry and handsomely rewarded for it.

I should know, I'm the one that accounts for each galleon we send them.

Thus far, there are sixteen of us here tonight, five more to arrive, because Voldemort likes odd numbers.

Young Goyle is on my left. Crabbe's boy should be seated across from me, but alas, he is currently residing outside, under the Dark Lord's rose bushes due to a mishap none of us like to mention. Stupid boy wasn't worth the time it took his dullard mother to spit him out. I did tell them when they invited him to take the Mark, but did anyone listen? No.

It didn't surprise any of us to discover that Voldemort tends roses. It's more about what's buried under them. Those woody, prickly bushes yield fat, red, blooms the size of your head. You can smell the perfume a long distance off. Finest roses in all of England, I'm sure.

If only every rose enthusiast had a dozen or so failed Death Eaters for fertilizer.

So Crabbe's replacement sits in his place. A Big Girl's Blouse with the unfortunate name of Dieter Roggering. I wish I was joking, but I'm not. Dangerous surname to have in a business like ours.

I've been sitting here for two hours. Any more of this and the next time anyone cares to look in my direction, all they'll see is a dried out husk of a man dressed in a lot of black leather. Thus far, Death Breath hasn't given us an indication as to why he called this particular Revel.

One does not just throw a Revel willy-nilly. We do so after a momentous occasion.

Like when Draco and his team attacked Potter's engagement party. Now _that _was a rousing success, even if those boys did nothing more than scare several elderly guests into incontinence. Or when they blew up half of that dirt mound the Weasley family calls home.

Good efforts, those.

It's all well and good to be stupid and daring while Potter's still riding his proverbial training broom. But from our sources in the Ministry, it would seem that Harry Potter is growing up, and it is only a matter of time before he steps around from behind Dumbledore's skirts and hunts us down.

When that day arrives, I shall have a good, long chat with my son about re-thinking our allegiances. Loyalty to Voldemort only works so long as there is some benefit to be gained from it.

As Voldemort's Head of Profitable Arrangements, my job is to keep the Dark Lord's bank accounts full. Trying to take over Wizarding Britain can be an expensive endeavour and so it falls to me to ensure that there are always enough funds without having to kidnap rich wizards and shake them upside down to see what falls out of their deep pockets.

This is what I do. It's what I've always been good at. I'm usually called upon to look over some upstart's suggestion to make us more money. And let me tell you, there've been some monumentally daft ideas over the years.

You're probably wondering what's in it for me.

For all that the Dark Lord can still have me erased in a second, he realises that I do not make money for free. I earn a tidy profit from the money I make him. The downside is that I have to live a fugitive's life, away from my son. Being who he is, Draco is under constant Ministry surveillance and it takes a great deal of cunning for me to be able to communicate with him safely. My ex-wife, Narcissa, has got the better end of the deal that was our marriage. With the demise of Malfoy Manor (I swear that woman only married me for that house), she has claimed a more modest property as her dower estate. Draco spends roughly half the year with her. He took the Mark after his seventeenth birthday and to this day I am still unable to repress the memory of his mother's histrionics at that particular decision.

Contrary to popular belief, I did not force the boy. Voldemort wanted him and to deny that was to sign Draco's death warrant. There would have been ways for me to hide him. But unlike myself, my son does not wish to lead a fugitive's life. Not yet, at any rate.

It's not all doom and gloom, though. This state of affairs sounds more depressing than it actually is. I am as extremely wealthy and there are still many places in Wizarding Europe where I can live like an anonymous king. Take Sardinia for instance. The mountains I call home have shielded me well.

So long as the Light stays in its airy, sunny patch of Wizarding Britain, and we stay in the shadows, of course.

The status quo has made me a wealthy man. Our existence keeps Potter pleasantly on edge, as he tends to his vapid flock of sheep. We, meanwhile, operate in the dark corners and alleyways of our world, corrupting where we find the corruptible. Yes, we're getting complacent, but money and creature comforts tend to do that to a person. Wizards are no exception.

I am in constant dread of the day the Dark Lord finally decides to raise the ante and decides to bring the fight to Potter's doorstep. If he can only keep his fanatical agenda on the back burner for a little while longer...

Yes, that would be very nice.

"I have a very special surprise," Voldemort suddenly announces.

The unusually playful tone he is using has a whiplash effect on all assembled. My pall of boredom lifts like mist faced with a brittle, dry wind. At some unseen command, Dieter Roggering lumbers from the hall. After a moment, he returns from the direction of Voldemort's personal chambers, carrying a small, sack-cloth covered burden over his shoulder.

He looks immensely pleased with his task. The reason for this is soon apparent.

He is carrying an unconscious girl. I can see her dirty, bare feet and a great quantity of dark hair, swaying slightly with each step Roggering takes. I feel myself frowning and immediately cease.

Ah. So the Revel is well and truly underway.

One of the Muggle whores manages to put two and two together, her original unease at her situation probably condenses into stark realization that all is not right this evening. And more still is yet to go wrong. She shrieks and drops her pitcher of weak, flat beer. It runs down along the uneven floor. Another girl saves her screams and races for the exit, but young Goyle moves from his chair and catches her. He looks markedly more pleased with the situation than I.

Meanwhile, our 'surprise' for the evening has been unceremoniously deposited onto the table, like a prize stag from a successful hunt. She lands on her side violently enough to make me wince. The sackcloth is whipped from her, revealing a pale, slack, nude body. Her arm is flung out, palm unfurled on the tabletop before me. Her nails are short and bitten down. Purple bruises encircle her wrist.

I find that I am presented with her profile and in that moment, her identity is without question.

Hermione Granger's long curly hair obscures some of her face, but I see her.

_Oh yes, I see you._

It would seem that my relatively peaceful, idyllic existence as a pampered fugitive has come to an abrupt end.

_Fuck_, as Draco is fond of saying. We're going to go to war over this.

The other men are no less concerned, although I can sense a growing excitement seep into the air as well. There are audible gasps.

"This is the end of us all," someone whispers. It is Antonin Dolohov's nephew, Eugene, easily the yellowest belly in the room.

Luckily for young Eugene, Voldemort does not hear him. Our Dark Lord is practically rubbing his hands together will anticipation. He's like some demented house cat eager to please his hosts with the offering he's dragged back into the house.

"For you," he tells us, his face suffused with nightmarish glee. His stare is scorching. "Who among you considers yourself worthy enough to take her first?"

A plan has already hatched itself in my brain. There is going to be only one way out of this predicament, and I mean to escape with my galleon-filled coffers intact. There is also the small matter of my son being out in the open still, a target for revenge should Potter ever seek to take that well-trodden path.

I'm going to have to rescue Hermione Granger.

I am on my feet. "I'll have her," I announce to all and sundry.

The silence is suddenly deafening.

"If you think I am worthy of such a prize, my Lord," I add, more quietly. There is a fine line between strategic humility and obvious arse-kissing. I have been walking this line for long time.

Voldemort's smile is answer enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**-2-**

Hermione was thinking of home.

Or rather, Hogwarts. Home was where she felt most like herself. And so it was comforting to think of her old Head Girl's room in Gryffindor Tower and all the numerous nooks and crannies she had discovered over the years. Depending on her needs, she could hide away from the world or from boys, for an afternoon.

Hiding from her responsibilities was a little trickier, however. Those tended to follow her no matter where you went.

Another part of her brain was wide awake and paying attention. It noted that there was now warmth where there had been hardness and cold only moments before. The previous cold had as much of a sedating effect as the blow she had received to the back of her head. There was no pain however. It was _there_, but it was too far away to be a problem at the moment. She wanted to curl up into a little ball and wait the darkness out. Her body seemed to be on stand-by mode, conserving energy for when it would be more urgently needed.

Something…_else _was happening now.

Someone was holding her. She relaxed, if only because holding usually meant safety. Her cheek was pressed against cool, padded leather. There was a moment's pause as she was repositioned in someone's arms.

A man's arms. She could tell from the gait, from the way that she was hardly jostled as he moved. It was a quick, steady, place.

Memory returned. Every part of her transformed from boneless to tense.

_Where am I?_

Was it still the same day? Hermione trawled through her disjointed memory, eventually picking up the threads that made up the most recent event. She had been leaving her small flat on her way to work, dreading the day ahead of her at the Ministry. Yes, she remembered that quite clearly. It had been an entirely ordinary wet Wednesday morning, much like the Monday and Tuesday that came before. Grey and rainy.

Only, not entirely ordinary.

Her breath was a misty cloud as she exited the warmth of her old, apartment block. An elderly man dressed in an assortment of rags was slumped over beside a dumpster at the end of the street. She didn't live on what you would call a quiet street, but at six in the morning on a weekday, even London tended to be a little bleary eyed. The sun was up, but it wasn't making much of an effort in penetrating the smog as yet.

The man sounded unwell, and not the kind of unwell you got after a bottle of cheap paper bag sherry either. He wheezed and staggered along the rusted dumpster, finally collapsing to the damp ground in an unmoving heap.

"'lo there, are you alright?" Hermione called out.

No response. No movement. There was nothing left to do except approach. Sadly, London had its fair share of homeless and it seemed an almost genetic trait of the citizens to for the most part ignore their existence. But it was very cold now, dangerously so. The various charities and Missions tended to do their best to herd as many homeless as possible off the streets. A single bad choice in where you passed the night could easily result in a stiff, frost-covered corpse the following morning. The papers didn't even bother reporting them any more.

Slinging her heavy bag more firmly over her shoulder, Hermione walked briskly toward the fallen man. The sound of her boot heels echoed along the empty street. In the far distance, sirens wailed to and from other emergencies.

Hermione squatted beside the fallen man and touched him on the shoulder. He was very still. Without really thinking about it she had automatically braced herself for the smell that was likely to make her eyes water, but there seemed to be a distinct lack of eau de unwashed.

If only she had paid more attention to this particular detail.

The pulse point under his jaw felt strong. Even so, he remained insensate and unresponsive to her questions. She didn't attempt to move him seeing as he was already lying on his left side, in the foetal position.

The decision was easy to make. Reasonably healthy people who did not seem to be affected by alcohol did not simply fall unconscious into a stupor. Hermione quickly dug in her shoulder bag for the admittedly outdated mobile phone her mother insisted she carry around. Harry fondly called it 'the brick'. It was about as streamlined as a wombat, but hey, it worked and that was all Mrs. Granger cared about.

"Hang in there," she reassured the unconscious man, as she dialled for Emergency Services.

It was at this point that the man rolled over and gave her a smile that didn't look like it had lived on the street for very long at all. His clean, finger-gloved hands clamped down over her wrists. The phone was that plucked away and tossed.

"If you think it will help you," he said.

Hermione didn't bother wasting time on a gasp. The wand she kept in her coat pocket shouldn't have been too far away or too difficult to reach had this been a normal, Muggle attack. But it wasn't. Damn, damn, damn! If she had concentrated, and really, she was quite beyond that by that juncture, she would have also smelled the remnants of Floo powder on him.

The grin widened. "Gotcha, Mudblood bitch."

Predictably, someone else had appeared behind her and the point of a wand was roughly pressed to her back.

"You'll come along quietly now, won't you?" The question was rhetorical to the point of absurdity.

Other, more sinister threats were made to ensure her compliance. Hermione knew how it worked. This clearly wasn't an assassination attempt or she'd likely be dead.

She did not go along quietly. It was amazing what adrenaline could make you do. It gave you strength and a worrying lack of fear. It made you ignore the pain of a blinding slap to the face. It made you think of your letter-box keys and your heavy key ring as weapons. It made you not care about how grimy the ground was as you scrambled over it in your best, white wool coat to fight off your attackers.

In the end, her efforts had not been enough, because in the end she wasn't even eight stone, standing at an unimpressive one hundred and sixty centimetres. No amount of violent thrashing was going to throw three (God, there were three now?) large, armed men off of her. She hadn't noticed when the third assailant had appeared, but it was apparent that he had merely been a lookout who had been called upon to assist when her struggles began.

"Keep her quiet or knock her out, will you!" the newcomer hissed.

She was thus subdued with a swift punch to the abdomen. The breath fled from her body. No matter how hard she sucked in air, none seemed to enter her lungs.

As she fought to breathe, she allowed herself a few minutes of terror. The terror was normal. Wise even, because she knew what was to come and she wasn't sure how long she would hold up for before she gave up the Order's secrets. And if she wasn't eventually used as some sort of bait to lure Harry, then she would be killed.

That would be…expected. She was calm, all of a sudden. It wasn't exactly an acceptance of death. Rather, it was an acceptance that living the life she had chosen meant constant risk. Risk had apparently come to collect.

Perhaps there would be another chance to escape later? Best to make sure she wasn't too injured or too brain-addled to spot that opportunity should it arise.

And then everything went black

* * *

There was a dry rustling; a soft, light noise. Like hay carried across stone floor by a draft.

Hay? Yes, she could smell it. Old, dried stuff. Then there was the sound of a door opening. Not something as simple as your average bedroom door. There was a great deal of creaking handle and hinges that had never benefited from the lubricating qualities of WD40. There was cold and damp and then there was a stale warmth and absence of fresh air altogether.

Hermione catalogued these details. Details were important. If her captors assumed she was still out cold, perhaps she could buy some time and plan. Perhaps she could…

"Commendable attempt at feigning unconsciousness, Miss Granger," said a low, close voice. Close enough that she could feel warm breath stir the hair at her temple. She fought the urge to visibly cringe.

"We both know that you are very much awake."

Her eyes snapped open at that. There wasn't much light, but her pupils still dilated widely and for one, panicked moment, she was blinded. Her mouth was dry. She was lying back against something soft.

Oh, Good Lord. It was a bed.

Two things immediately occurred to her, both quite startling revelations. The first was that Lucius Malfoy was standing over her. The second thing was that she was very much naked. This second detail was made all the more horrendous precisely because of the first.

Now was _not _the time to go to pieces.

Begging and pleading had never been her forte, sincere or otherwise. It wouldn't work with people like the current lot of Death Eaters, anyway. They tended to act like they had more to lose than you did, which made them particularly dangerous.

She was still very stiff and recently acquired pains were beginning to make themselves known again. Her head felt like it was about to split open. The chafed skin around both wrists stung like chilblains. There were sore spots all over her body. Hermione tightly clutched the rough cloth that was partially covering her nudity and stared at Malfoy with undisguised malevolence.

Funny, he didn't exactly look like a lust-crazed maniac on the verge of rape. He stood over her, looking…annoyed, actually.

Hermione wasn't about to second-guess her apparent situation. If it looked bad, it generally _was _bad.

"How-" Malfoy began, and got no further.

Hermione lashed out. Kicking, bucking and twisting. She would have bitten him if he had been standing just a little bit closer. Through these violent struggles, Malfoy reacted by looking nonplussed.

That was until one artless kick resulted in her bare heel contacting with his groin. After this, he went back to looking rather angry again.

He grunted and with slow deliberation, caught both her ankles and dragged her back down to the foot of the bed. That simple movement rendered her terrifyingly helpless for a moment. Too, she lost hold of the ratty bit of sack cloth that had been protecting her bruised and battered modesty.

Hermione screamed. God help her, she hadn't any idea she could scream like _that_.

Her hands were free. It took her a moment to actually comprehend this fact. And then, with as much strength as she could muster, she hit him hard, across the face. The slap was resounding, causing her palm to burn. For her efforts, Malfoy's face whipped to the side. He turned back to face her slowly.

He's going to kill me now, she thought and her body tensed in anticipation. There was an odd sort of comfort in certain death. It seemed preferable at this point. The thought of being beaten enough to lose consciousness terrified her.

But he did not move. Nor did he say anything more to her.

The mattress was dank, lumpy and soft. Hermione sagged down in the middle of it, before surfacing once more and scrambling off to the edge. She grabbed the stale white sheet that covered the mattress and wrapped it around herself with numb, ice-cold fingers.

"You're not going to get away with this," she spat out. Unfortunately, her voice was still missing in action from all the previous screaming. What came out was a less impressive, "Yehh…"

Still, Malfoy did not move. Likely, he didn't think she was a threat enough to warrant restraining her. There was nowhere to run to and he was standing in front of the only means of escape in the room.

What the hell was he doing? Desperately, she scanned his face. He remained impassive, though she noted that there was a bright red mark blooming along his left cheek, roughly the size of her hand.

It appeared he was thinking. _Not _good.

Feeling was quickly returning to her extremities. Hermione didn't waste any more time. Her eyes scanned the remainder of the room. Wooden chair near the fire. Mouldy tapestry on the wall. Small table nearby with ceramic pitcher and bowl.

The pitcher…

Hermione darted toward the table on legs that were still unsteady. She snatched up the pitcher, which was half filled with water. The floor was like ice. Or maybe that was just her frozen, bare feet. She had never been so cold or so afraid in her life.

Malfoy started walking forward. Every step he took meant that he was walking further away from the exit.

"Come near me and I'll kill you!" There, some voice made it out of her mouth this time. Her hand was shaking so hard that water was sloshing over the rim of the chipped pitcher. She roughly shoved her long hair off of her face so she could see more clearly.

He continued advancing. Hermione couldn't even see his wand. The son of a bitch hadn't even bothered to take it out yet. It was bloody difficult not looking at the doorway and therefore being obvious about her intentions.

"Were you planning on throwing that?" he asked. The sound of him speaking so startled her that she nearly dropped the pitcher. His voice was low and languid. Utterly inappropriate for the situation. She could have hated him for that alone.

He was right, though. The pitcher was a joke. She choked back a sob.

Ah…well. Plan B, then. With this decision, the panic seemed to step outside of her, for a moment, to watch what happened next. She wasn't crying and for that, she was glad.

Hermione whipped the pitcher around and smashed it against the edge of the table. It broke under the handle, leaving rough, jagged points. She pressed what was left of the jug hard against her own neck, where the sharp edges of the broken pottery pierced her skin.

A tiny rivulet of blood pooled inside her collarbone.

The expression on his face changed, then. Though at that moment, Hermione wasn't receptive to noticing such details. If she had, she might have noted alarm, mingled with the most fleeting admiration.

"Stay away," she whispered. Damn it. She was crying now. She could barely see him though her streaming eyes.

Miraculously, the threat worked. Malfoy stopped in his tracks. He raised his black-gloved hands in an imploring gesture. A gesture designed to encourage accord. She remembered how he had looked the same way at Harry in the Hall of Prophecies. She also remembered very well what happened after.

"Miss Granger, I trust it need not come to that." His voice was still deceptively gentle. "Put it down."

She swallowed, feeling the sharp points dig deeper into her throat. Her grip on the handle was punishing. "Yes? And then what?"

Quite suddenly, he was beside her. How had he gotten so bloody close? She hadn't seen him move! Hermione tilted up her face to stare at him. He had darker eyes than his son. Not that she gave a toss, but they were darker, all the same. In her terror, those storm-grey eyes filled her vision.

She really did not want Lucius Malfoy's eyes to be the last thing she saw.

Hermione shut her eyes.

"And then you acknowledge that you are well and truly helpless and under my complete control." There was a self-assured, cat-like smile buried in that sentence.

The last, small remnant of stubborn, ridiculous hope disintegrated. She would not be held hostage or held for trade, or lure. They would not get Order secrets out of her. Other captured Aurors had made the decision when faced with no other option.

"_Fuck you,_" she said, almost on a sigh. Mustering final bravado, she pushed the cut ceramic into her neck and slashed her throat open.

Or least that was the general idea.

The next thing she knew, she was holding aloft her empty, clenched fist and the broken pitcher was in even small pieces, on the floor. Malfoy crushed the pottery bits under a, tall-booted foot, grinding it to dust. The saucer went the same way.

Now, he looked impatient. "Yes, well. I think we've wasted enough time."

Hermione stared mutely at the remains of the pitcher. "No…" she whispered. There was no hope now. She crumpled inside herself.

_Harry, don't listen to them. Whatever they tell you, don't come for me..._

Seemingly satisfied that she wasn't likely to do herself serious injury, he strode to the door, produced his wand and murmured an incantation. The outline of the door glowed bright white briefly. He turned to her. There were no more options. No more cards to play. Fate took over. The dam broke. Pure nightmare terror flooded her veins.

Mutely, she blinked back at him.

"There is only going to be one way out of this predicament that we find ourselves in." He let that sink in for a moment. "I'm afraid you're going to have trust me."

"_We_?" she repeated.

"Your being here is a catalyst for disaster," he snapped. He looked furious now. "If I was in the mood to be utterly unsurprised, I'd inquire as to how you allowed yourself to be captured with such ridiculous ease."

She wasn't sure she was hearing him correctly. He was berating _her f_or getting herself kidnapped?

"Miss Granger," he enunciated slowly, because she was obviously having difficulties. "_I am going to help you_."

"And you expect me to believe you?" she demanded, incredulous. His penetrating gaze was whittling away the few nerves she had left.

"I expect you to believe that I value my own life and that of my son, enough to avoid going to war over the death of one foolish girl!"

He was a nutter if he thought she was going to be so easily duped into trusting him. Lucius Malfoy was the Father of Lies.

Hermione shook her head at him, taking a step backwards. He was doing that thing again – coming closer without visibly walking. "You're a Death Eater." She hadn't meant to state the obvious, but it seemed he needed reminding of certain details.

"Yes," he agreed seriously, with a hint of sinister thrown in. He was close enough that her eyes were at a level with his mouth. "And this is a Dark Revel."

Hermione swallowed. _Oh._

Her back met with cold, rough stone. Somehow, she had been walked backwards into the wall on the far side of the room. Malfoy was staring down at the sheet she was wearing like it was steel-plated armour with a faintly amused expression. He raised his wand and Hermione couldn't help but flinch. He wasn't touching any part of her, but his very presence crowded her.

The sheet transfigured into what looked like button-less pyjamas made from the same, shabby material. It was a simple, shapeless top and trouser combination. She was clothed. This simple detail improved her situation and outlook immeasurably, even if it only was superficial.

Hermione's mouth automatically formed the words 'thank you', for she _was _thankful, but she caught herself in time. It wasn't like he had added a pair of shoes as well. She was sure her feet were on the verge of frostbite. Her teeth hadn't stopped chattering since she had regained consciousness.

"Now, then," said Malfoy, with enough haughtier to further chill the air between them. "Have we proceeded to the part where you _attempt _to listen?"

What choice did she have? She was captured, one way or another. Strange how things seemed just a little bit brighter and jarring after you survived an attempted suicide. She had zero options as a prisoner of this seedy little room.

There had to be more hope outside the room, even if it did mean following Lucius Malfoy out of it (whom she trusted about as much as she trusted Crookshanks to be left alone with a saucer of fresh cream).

Malfoy's tall, black-robed form was standing at the door once more. He opened it very slowly, as if he were unsealing the casing off an incendiary device. A thin translucent veil formed around the doorway. Hermione thought it might be a spell to prevent the room's wards from detecting their leaving.

"Quickly."

Her heart pounding, she took several shaky steps towards him, before stopping to grasp the table for support. Her legs were still so pathetically weak. Helplessly, she raised her anxious gaze to Lucius.

Who rolled his eyes and without a word of warning, picked her up and carried her out the door in much the same manner he had brought her in.


	3. Chapter 3

**-3-**

If she thought it was cold inside the room, it was downright Antarctic outside of it. Hermione hadn't realised how much of a stupor she had been in earlier. She felt more alert now. Adrenaline was taking over as her previous grogginess dissipated. It was crucial that she moved her limbs to try and get her blood flowing normally again.

Also, being carried around by Lucius Malfoy was doing nothing for her state of mind.

"Let me down," she demanded, hoarsely. "I can walk now."

Malfoy ignored her. Her added weight didn't appear to be slowing him down noticeably. They passed by two other closed doors. Hermione thought she could hear muffled crying coming from behind one of them.

As they approached the end of the gloomy corridor, she could also hear voices. Malfoy pulled into the shadows and silently set her down on her feet.

"Be silent," he said, without looking at her. His eyes were trained on the end of the corridor, where the voices were growing louder.

Hermione took the opportunity to scan her surroundings. There was no cover, nowhere to hide unless they made a dash for the room they had only just come from. She was amazed to note that he wasn't even holding on to his wand.

Surely he didn't intend to just stand there and let them be discovered? A sudden thought struck. Perhaps he wasn't going to put up any resistance? Perhaps he decided that she wasn't worth the trouble? And really, when she thought about it, wasn't he risking his life to do this? Why the hell was he doing this anyway? Maybe he would just shrug his shoulders, mutter an excuse and hand her over?

There was too much uncertainty for her to relegate her fate to Malfoy alone.

If she had a wand, she had _options_.

Hoping that he was too distracted to notice, she slipped her shaking hand under his cloak to grasp the wand she knew resided inside a pocket on the right side.

_Please, God…_

He was so quick; supernaturally quick. Her fingers had only just managed a fleeting touch of cool, slender wood inside the greater warmth of his luxuriant robes before one of his hands wrapped around her throat and the rest of her was pushed up against the wall.

The look he gave her was best described as slightly incredulous with a dash of livid thrown in.

"Do you really _want _to die?" he hissed. "And yes, I do realise I am asking you this, mere minutes after that feeble attempt to slit your own throat."

She couldn't breathe, and just when she was getting used to being conscious again. Frantic for air and clawing futilely at his hand, Hermione could only stare back at him in mute fear.

He gave her a little shake, as if she were a disobedient puppy. "Touch my wand again and I'll kill you myself, do you understand me?"

Somehow, she managed to nod. The death grip released and she slumped against the wall, wheezing into her cupped hands.

The voices became people, one of whom was female. Lucius glared down at her, an unspoken reminder to keep silent. He really didn't need to tell her twice. Hermione pressed herself flat against the wall; half hoping she could just sink into it. She attempted to breathe as quietly as her bruised throat would allow.

"You will wait your turn," said a gravelly voice in a scolding tone.

"There might be nothing left by then," whined a high, male voice.

"Scion, can you think of nothing else?" snapped a woman. "Honestly. You don't see our Master panting about after one of those whores, do you?

"There are only three whores, dear sister," drawled the man who was apparently called Scion. "How are we to share them equally when there are so many of us?"

Suddenly, to Hermione's horror, Walden MacNair appeared around the corner. She had only ever seen him once, without a mask on, either the one he wore when he worked as an executioner for the Ministry or the one he wore for Voldemort. He was older now, larger and a great deal ruddier.

MacNair came to an abrupt halt when he sighted Malfoy. Whomever was accompanying him had to stop short behind him. Thank goodness for his bulk. He effectively blocked Lucius and her from the view of the others.

_This is it_, thought Hermione. She braced herself, noting with confusion that Malfoy did not seem to be in half the panic she was in.

Meeting MacNair's bulging eyes, Malfoy merely stood aside to let him see Hermione more clearly before putting a finger to his lips.

MacNair immediately lost his ruddiness, turning a stark shade of white. To his credit, he recovered quickly.

"Papa, what's the matter?" said the woman. Hermione could not see her, but she was probably standing right behind the wall, mere centimetres from them.

"Beatrice," MacNair began, in an overly bright manner, "I want you to take your brother to the main hall. Wait for me there."

"But Papa, you said we were to accompany you to-"

"And now I give you new instructions! Take your brother. Go now! I will abide no arguments."

There were none, in any case. MacNair's offspring may have been whiners, but they were apparently obedient.

"Walden," Malfoy drawled, only after the sound of Scion and Beatrice MacNair's footsteps could no longer be heard. He might as well have been conversing with a colleague at a soiree, such was his untroubled manner. "One might mistake you for being halfway competent judging from that display of quick thinking."

Hermione didn't think it was a good idea to taunt the person who could effectively sign their death warrants with a simple shout. Wisely, however, she said nothing.

Walden MacNair was looking acutely distressed. "What in Merlin's name is happening here?"

"Guess," said Lucius.

He did, apparently not liking the conclusion to which he arrived. "Lucius, you cannot hope to pull this off! _H_e will know what has happened. And who has made it happen!"

"Which is why a timely escape is called for," Malfoy replied, in the articulate, crisp way of speaking Hermione had come to associate with him. "How fortuitous that I should run into you like this. I need a distraction."

"What? From me?" MacNair sputtered. "I do not have a death wish!"

"But you have anonymous holdings, investments outside the notice of our Master and the Ministry, do you not? I know that you do because your figures never quite add up, do they? Mind you, I have not brought any of these anomalies to the attention of our Master."

"Now, Lucius-"

Malfoy looked slightly less civil now. He grabbed hold of the front of MacNair's robes and hauled him upwards so that they were eye to eye. "I have kept your secrets because I, too, recognise the need for contingency plans in our line of work. If you want that inbred brood of yours to inherit more than just your smoking corpse from the Ministry morgue, I suggest you see the light of reason and _assist _me."

MacNair swallowed audibly. He seemed to see where the conversation was going, even if Hermione did not. She cast a confused, worried look between the two Death Eaters.

MacNair caught her gaze briefly. He glowered at her. "How can you be sure the girl really is worth the trouble?"

Malfoy released MacNair. "Tell me what you think will happen when we deposit Hermione Granger's dead, defiled body at Harry Potter's doorstep. She is engaged to marry the Deputy Minister's son, did you know this?"

Hermione stiffened at that last comment. How the hell did _he _know that? She hadn't even told Harry!

MacNair passed a hand over his sweaty forehead. "No, I confess I did not."

"I will give the girl to the Ministry and then I will make all haste to collect my son. I assume you have similar plans in place?"

"Of course I do," MacNair said. He sounded defeated. "We all do! Merlin, this is insanity…"

"It is," Malfoy snapped. "If the girl is worth more to us dead, then who am I to question her purpose here tonight? But seeing as that is patently _not _the case, I cannot help but feel our Master has not given this course of action due consideration."

MacNar sighed. "You are speaking of the likely repercussions."

Hermione processed this information. Likely repercussions? Malfoy had to be talking about an attack on Voldemort's forces by Harry and whoever was crazy enough to go along with him, with or without Order or Ministry approval.

_To save her_.

Oh God, they were talking about all out war.

And, remarkably, it seemed that this was precisely what Malfoy and MacNair feared. They didn't want a war that wasn't fought in the shadows, on _their _terms.

MacNair nodded, shakily. "Be sure you aren't the first to voice your concerns. However there is nothing to be done about it! Her disappearance would no doubt have been noticed. The damage has already been done, I tell you!"

"Her miraculous escape will be well received," said Malfoy, in clipped tones.

"How are you to leave with her? The apparition barrier will not be lifted until after midnight, you know that. Only our Master can remove it."

"And Bellatrix," Malfoy added.

MacNair managed to turn a shade paler. "You'd be mad to ask her, no matter what reason you produced!"

"I don't intend to ask her. And I thank you for your continuing assessment as to my mental faculties."

"Malfoy, the east exit is your best chance. Flee through the woods. You'll be on foot for a while yet until you clear the barrier." He eyed Hermione, taking note of her bare feet, blue-tinged lips and shivering. "The girl will needing more clothing on her or she's going to be dead by the time you get her to London," he said, pointedly. "You will tell your people than I helped, won't you?" This was directed to Hermione.

Hermione stared back at him. Here was a man who had once made a living carrying out the most heinous tasks during Fudge's reign at the Ministry. Outside of that, he had murdered and lied his way up Voldemort's ranks.

And he was practically begging her to pass on a good report of him to the Ministry.

Were all Death Eaters this disloyal to Voldemort? She wished the Order had known this fact earlier. Perhaps an offer of amnesty would end the fighting more quickly than the current search and destroy tactics.

Malfoy's hand tightened painfully over her forearm. Hermione winced. "Answer the man," he ordered

"Yes," said Hermione. "I'll tell them."

MacNair nodded. "Good. That's a good girl."

Glancing along the corridor to make sure they were still alone, MacNair hurriedly reached into his robes and pulled outs a small, flat, silver case, much like the kind used to keep cigarettes. Hermione managed to get a look at its contents when Malfoy undid the catch and the lid sprang open.

There was the unmistakable pungent scent of sulphur in the air.

It was a small coil of some sort of gold thread. As it came into contact with the cold air, light wisps of golden smoke curled from it. The scent of sulphur increased. Hermione realised she was looking at dragon heartstring, but as to why it was of some importance to MacNair, she had no idea. Besides the fact that it was priceless, of course.

Malfoy snapped the case and snorted. "Ah, Walden, you superstitious fool."

"Take it Lucius! You never know…"

There was hardly time to ask what the thing was, or for Malfoy to debate its utility with his colleague. He spared Walden another brief, pitying look before pocketing the case.

"Come," Malfoy commanded, after MacNair had left.

Hermione guessed they were to head to the east exit, to make a run for the other side of the anti-apparation barrier. However, there was _one _question she would have him answer for her first.

"What was MacNair's son talking about earlier? Are there other people being kept here?"

He was probably content to ignore the question, but she spotted the tell-tale narrowing of his eyes. Hermione remembered the crying coming from the other room. If this was a Revel, then it would be a poor one indeed if she was supposed to be the only source of…entertainment.

There was someone else being held on that floor.

Hermione wrenched her arm free from his grasp and dug her heels in. "For God's sake! I _heard _him say there are other girls being kept here. You have to do something!"

Her struggles and pleas were steadfastly ignored. He grabbed the back of her shirt and dragged her along beside him. She kicked at him. He responded by holding her away from him.

"If you aren't going to at least try, then let me!"

If her struggles didn't work, perhaps her complete lack of cooperation would get his attention. She promptly gave him her full weight. It worked, he came to a halt.

They were halfway to the end of the corridor, in the direction from which MacNair had walked with his son and daughter. Malfoy spun around and grasped her face by her chin, squeezing hard. He was staring at her as if she'd lost her mind. And maybe she had.

"How exactly do you think to help them?"

"I don't know!" she confessed. Tears were streaming down her face now. "How can we not even _try_?"

"We?" he questioned, one dark eyebrow rising. He said this in much the same way she had done earlier when he had informed Hermione of his plan to leave with her.

She thought for a moment, running the back of her hand under her running nose. "Look, just give me your wand! I'll say I stole it. Let me leave here by myself if you're not going to at least attempt and help all of us!"

He was angry. Oh, he was very, very angry.

And yet how could she leave them, these other girls who were in the same position she had been in before Malfoy had stepped up? If she allowed herself to walk away, it would haunt her for the rest of her life, however long that was going to be.

"You actually think you are in a position to _bargain _with me? Hear this, Mudblood. You will do exactly as I say, when I say it!" He was holding on to her forearm again, trapping it between their bodies. "If it suits my needs to beat you into unconsciousness, then I will do so, save for the fact that carrying you would slow-"

He didn't finish because it was at this point that Hermione bit him on his right hand, as hard as she could. It was a hell of a bite judging from the fact that her teeth punctured right through his leather glove. Hermione thought she might have dislocated her jaw when she finally pulled away, such was the pain.

He made a noise, probably more from incredulity than actual discomfort. Hermione didn't waste any time wrenching her arm free, and then sprinting for the room where she had heard the crying earlier. This time, her legs did not disappoint.

If the risk paid off, he was going to come after her.

"You little bitch!" he hissed. "Get back here!"

She reached the door in question and pressed her ear up to it, noting that there was nothing but silence beyond it. A quick glance to her right revealed that Malfoy had reached her and was checking to see that no one else was approaching.

He looked at her then, and Hermione had to contend herself with the fact that as furious as he seemed, he wasn't dragging her away just yet. Or maybe he simply acknowledged that she was liable to waste more precious time fighting him.

"She must be in here," she told him, openly pleading. "I heard her."

There was no one else around. They would not get another opportunity like this. If it was to be done, they had to do it _now_.

Cursing, Malfoy pushed her aside and slowly repeated the same incantation he had used to exit the previous room, as he turned the handle. Hermione's heart was in her throat. She kept her eyes trained on the corridor exits, to check for any approaching persons.

And indeed, someone _was _coming around the corridor. No! She saw the person's shadow curving around the corner and wasted no time shoving into Malfoy's back. The two of them passed the threshold and Hermione promptly shut the door behind her as softly as she could manage.

"Hide!" she whispered frantically.

He gave her a scathing look and was about to say something when he noticed what was on the bed.

It would seem that there hadn't been any sounds coming from the room now because the girl was dead. Which meant that the soft crying Hermione had heard minutes earlier was the sound of the girl _dying_. The sight was like nothing Hermione could have conjured up in her own imagination.

_The blood…_

Oh God, there was blood _everywhere_.

It was impossible to tell what had actually killed the girl because her naked body was a mess of gaping rips and slashes. She had literally been _shredded _and had probably been bleeding to death while they had their little encounter with MacNair.

Hermione blinked back tears of horror. Her hands were around her mouth, trying to contain the scream that had fortunately never eventuated. She turned around to look at Malfoy. She didn't know what she expected to see on his face. There was revulsion as he took in the body, but this was quickly replaced with the previous mask of nothing.

Without a word, he grabbed a catatonic Hermione and hauled her to the corner. There was a dusty armoire and several mismatched chairs. To the left were thick, green velvet drapes that hung to the floor. For one hysterical moment, Hermione pictured Malfoy hiding them in the armoire or behind the curtains with their feet exposed, like children playing hide and seek.

He'd have a mutiny on his hands if he thought to bring her anywhere near the bed, even if it did have room underneath to hide. Even now, the dead girl's blood was steadily spreading in an outward moving pool, away from the soiled bedding.

"Damn it," he seethed.

Malfoy finally produced his wand and pulled her flat against him beside the window. He then cast another spell she was unfamiliar with. At once, Hermione felt like she was under Harry's invisibility cloak. It was like looking through murky glass. There was a shimmering wall before her, like the swirling rainbow of oil in water.

"_Do not move a muscle_."

Hermione shivered. Malfoy had breathed that command directly into her ear.

The door swung open a moment later and two people entered the room. It was Bellatrix Lestrange and the man Hermione recognised as the 'vagrant' who had lured her into the Death Eater's trap.

Bellatrix looked thin and haggard, but her eyes, as always, were fever bright. If you didn't already know she was certifiably insane from knowing who she was and what she had been responsible for, her eyes would have been enough to convince you. In stark contrast to Malfoy's expensively elegant attire, Bellatrix didn't seem to care about her clothes. They looked threadbare and serviceable and nothing more than that.

Malfoy remained statue-still behind her. She could barely even feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

The man spotted the body and started scowling. He turned away, his face a study in acute disgust. "Bellatrix, you are foul in ways they have yet to invent words for."

Bellatrix actually looked a little contrite. She was pacing the room, not seeming to notice how the hem of her long robes was making nasty smears in the floor where it came into contact with the dead girl's blood. Hermione felt a distinct wave of nausea. The smell of blood in the air was heavy and metallic.

"I confess got a little carried away, Dieter."

The man snorted. "Carried away! Now what am I to tell the others? You might have at least let this one survive the evening!"

"She tested me!" Bellatrix screeched. "The Muggle whore spat in my face!" She rubbed her hand over the back of her head in an ineffectual attempt to smooth her hair. "You should have selected more suitable candidates."

Dieter sighed. "Malfoy would seem to have made the best selection this evening, picking the Mudblood first. If anything, we can be sure she's _cleaner _than this one might have been. One can only hope there'll be enough to go around in the end."

Hermione stiffened at this. Behind her, Lucius squeezed her in silent warning to be still.

Blood was still seeping, almost dripping, from the dead girl. It ran along the floor, a thick, viscous line of red that collected and swirled around her bare feet. God, it was still warm.

And _sticky_. Hermione shuddered, curling her toes back, which didn't help because it just made the blood squelch further under her feet.

Her nausea increased.

Apparently Bellatrix didn't care for mention of Hermione either. Her face twisted into a sneer. "The Muggle whores you procured ought to have been sufficient. Our Master should not have made a gift of the Mudblood. To offer her up as a prize of any sort is blasphemous."

Dieter looked up sharply at her. "Do you question our Master's judgement?"

Bellatrix was quick to shake her head. "No, of course not! I do, however, question Lucius' taste in whores."

Dieter had composed himself enough to inspect the corpse. With a grimace he covered the lacerated body with the already blood-soaked sheet and picked up the grisly bundle.

"You owe me, Bella."

"And you will be repaid," she assured. Hermione watched with revulsion as Bellatrix and the younger man shared a lingering kiss.

With the still-dripping body of the dead girl between them.

This _had _to be some sort of nightmare. Something fell loose from the bloody bundle. It fell to the ground with a small, wet noise. It was a _tongue_. Hermione stared, feeling bile rise in her throat.

Lucius was a solid anchor at her back. He had one arm wrapped around her waist; the other was by his side, holding his wand. She could feel the entire, tense length of him braced behind her. If the situation wasn't distressing enough, his hold on her was obscuring her ability to hyperventilate, which probably was a good thing.

Dieter left the room with the body. Bellatrix was alone, or so she thought. With an expression of bored resignation, she poked at the tongue with the tip of her shoe before actually picking it up to look at it.

It was too much for Hermione. She was going to be violently ill. She put her hand over her mouth to try to contain her gagging, praying Bellatrix did not hear.

Bellatrix heard her. But only because there was nothing as quiet as a murderer contemplating her recent kill.

The woman was nearly as quick as Lucius. What was it about Death Eaters and their otherworldly reflexes? Like a predator seeking out evidence of even the most unlikely of prey, her narrowed eyes scanned the room, smirking slightly when she paused at their hiding place.

Only she wouldn't have been able to see them.

Yet.

"Accio!"

Lucius' wand went flying out of his grip. The second it made contact with Bellatrix's outstretched hand, the glamour vanished. Bellatrix promptly snapped the wand in half.

Hermione silently groaned, _I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry… _She felt Lucius' hand fall from her waist and the only thing she could do was keel over and give in to the need to vomit. Bellatrix ignored her retching as she gawked at Lucius. It honestly looked like her eyes were about to pop out of her head.

"I don't believe it…" She glanced from Hermione's bent, pale form, to Lucius' expression of stark fury.

"Lucius?" she said, her voice sounding small and childlike. "Have you lost your mind?"

"No," he said. He might have looked unconcerned save for the unmistakably defensive stance he was taking. "I think it's safe to say I haven't been in our Master's employ for quite that long. Certainly not as long as you." He walked towards Bellatrix.

Bellatrix sucked in air through her teeth. Her wand rose to be on level with his face as he approached. "I should kill you for that insult to our Master alone."

"You'd be making a grave mistake, Bella."

"Me? I think not! I'm not the one attempting to steal away the Dark Lord's prize!" Her wand was quivering in her grasp.

Hermione could sense that Lucius was coiling up, readying himself. She wondered that Bellatrix did not notice this, but from the look of utter devastation on her face, Hermione guessed her attention was otherwise occupied.

"I cannot believe you would be willing to give up your privileged position as our Master's trusted servant to save the likes of _her_!" Bellatrix turned the full force of her madness onto Hermione then, who slowly inched back against the armoire.

"Bella, think for one moment. You do realise what I am attempting to do here, don't you?" Lucius calmly asked her.

Bellatrix blinked. "You mean to return her to them, don't you? You are doing this to save your own traitorous hide! _Don't you move, Mudblood!_" she roared at Hermione.

Hermione flinched and froze, staring down at her blood smeared hands. She'd been trying to make her way to the door in a crawl.

That small distraction meant that Lucius was now directly behind Bellatrix.

"You wish to fight the Light, do you?" Lucius was saying. "You think your zeal and devotion for our Master is enough to grant us victory over their superior forces?"

Bellatrix swung her head wildly back to Lucius, although her body was still facing Hermione. "Superior!"

"Yes!" Lucius spat. "Superior in number! Superior in their training and in their commitment! I do not forget the past, Bellatrix. We were younger, we had grand plans and the ambition and influence to see those plans to fruition. But things have changed. We are a dying, diseased farce of an order and I am not the only one who sees this!"

Bellatrix was actually trembling with rage. Her skin was alabaster pale, but there were two spots of colour on her high cheekbones. Her eyes were like twin, blue suns. Hermione was sure that Lucius was going to die in the next few moments, wandless and helpless as he was. And yet there he stood, openly baiting Bellatrix. Hermione stared at the pair of them, both mesmerised and horrified.

"You will give me names," Bellatrix whispered to Lucius. "And I will see to it personally that the lot of you blood traitors are dead by sunrise."

Hermione's hand reached the door handle, Bellatrix suddenly spun around to face her once more. "Get back here you filthy Mudblood!" she screeched.

Her rage, already so effectively stoked by Lucius, was suddenly unleashed. And in that moment when she would have probably killed Hermione in a blaze of blinding Avada Kedavra, Lucius spoke.

"Come with me."

Hermione didn't think she'd seen anyone look so stunned. Bellatrix's mouth was hanging open. She was quite sure hers was too because she could never imagine Lucius Malfoy sounding like he did right now.

His voice was low, seductive. It was a lover's voice.

"What did you say?"

"I said, come with me," he held out his hand, palm up. "It's over Bella. It has been for a while now."

Hermione saw Bellatrix's free hand twitch, as if she had to curb the instinct to automatically take what Lucius was offering. Bellatrix made a fist with her hand and brought it to her mouth to stifle a low moan.

"No. No, it is not over," she whispered. "Don't ask this of me."

"But it _is_. There's no point pretending either of us has a future here. You've given our Master your youth. You've endured prison and unspeakable conditions for being his most faithful servant. All I ask is that you spend what's left of your life as _you _see fit. I can keep us well hidden. Draco as well."

Her lower lip quivered. "You dare to propose that _I _betray our Master!"

Lucius was silent. Despite her protestations, Hermione could see the conflict ravaging Bellatrix's face. There was a twisted history between the two of them, it was as plain as day. However, just when Hermione thought that there was truly no hope in changing Bellatrix's obviously broken mind, she spoke again.

"What about...what about my sister?"

"What of her?" Lucius responded, his voice going hard. "Take the wards down Bella. Do you truly wish to see me dead? Do you wish that for your nephew?"

Bellatrix clutched at her head with both hands, as if Lucius' words were physically painful to her. Even from where she was, crouched down by the door, Hermione could see that Lucius' focus was on the wand Bellatrix was holding shakily in her right hand. She couldn't believe Bellatrix was buying the act.

But then again…

"Lucius," she looked up at him, desolate. "How could you pick her over _me_?"

Hermione wasn't sure if the 'her' in question referred to Narcissa or to Hermione. Not that it mattered because the damage to Bellatrix had been done. Miraculously, Bellatrix allowed Lucius to approach her and even take her into his arms. He ran a gloved hand down the side of her face and Hermione had to contain a shiver of revulsion when she saw how Bellatrix leaned into his hand, her eyes closing with relish.

"You know how I feel, Bella. How I have always felt-"

"But then why did you put a stop to it?" she sobbed.

"For Draco," Lucius said, catching Bellatrix's chin so that she would look at him. "He would have been too young to understand."

"For Draco?" she repeated.

Hermione had the distinct feeling that Bellatrix had forgotten Hermione was even _there._

"Did you ever really love me?"

_Oh, good Lord._

He didn't chose to answer, instead, what followed was a kiss that was so openly carnal it made the one Bellatrix had shared with Dieter look like a brotherly peck. A revolted Hermione forced herself to look away.

What kind of debauched insane asylum was Voldemort running here?

Mostly, she was disgusted, but she did register surprise that someone as glacial as Lucius Malfoy could put that much _heat _into a kiss. It wasn't quite like watching your parents snog, but it was close to it.

Lucius was the first to pull away, and a visibly subdued Bellatrix melted against him. As much as she was relieved to note that Lucius' ploy seemed to be working, Hermione felt a grain of sympathy for the woman, that she should be so easily swayed by a man's empty promises.

"The wards, Bella," Lucius murmured.

"_Murus Desino_," Bellatrix incanted. For a second, her wand glowed bright white and then there was a distinct pop in the air which Hermione was able to feel in her ears, much like the change in cabin pressure when an air plane descends.

Hermione caught Lucius gaze over Bellatrix's shoulder.

His expression was precisely contained. There was a little of the raw heat that had gone into his acting performance, which in Hermione's opinion was deserving of a bloody then there was the acknowledgement that she had witnessed something intensely private about his personal life.

Bellatrix pulled away. She was still holding her wand, though her grip was anything but shaky now.

"You are lying to me, Lucius."

Ok, maybe she wasn't so pitiably gullible after all.

"Bella-" he began, in that melted honey tone, but she stopped him.

"If you care about the little Muggle whore so much, then you can live just like she ought to. _Without _magic." Bellatrix smiled and neatly snapped her own wand in half. It clattered to the floor.

"Run, Lucius. Run and we shall see how far you get without the power that is your birthright."

Lucius sighed. And then he stepped forward, grabbed the still smiling Bellatrix by the face and violently slammed the back of her head into the wall behind her.

"Stupid woman always did love her melodrama," he muttered.

Hermione was still gawking at the two pieces of Bellatrix's broken wand, lying on the floor. They now had no weapons, no protection whatsoever. Lucius strode over to Hermione and hauled her up by the front of her makeshift blouse. She felt it rip slightly. He dragged her over to the other end of the room, away from the bed, the blood and an unconscious, or possibly dead, Bellatrix.

"Stand!" he ordered.

She stood. He had taken out the little silver case containing the dragon heartstring that MacNair had given him earlier.

"It seems pointless to ask, but under the circumstances...can you perform magic _f__oras auxillium_?"

Hermione blinked. Her usually formidable brain was a dull weight in her head.

"Foras _what_?"

"Magic without a wand," he snapped. "Can you do it or not?"

Well, no, she couldn't do bloody wandless magic on purpose! No one could! Hermione shook her head at him.

Lucius gave a slight snort. "Pity."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

He had flipped open the lid of the case MacNair have given him and was now holding the thin, smoking, filament of dragon heartstring in his hand. It was probably fortuitous that he was wearing gloves because Hermione could distinctly smell burning leather.

"Now that the wards have been taken down, we are going to Apparate out of here."

"How?" she asked, incredulous. "We don't even have a working wand."

Clearly, there was no time to explain in detail, though she suspected he wouldn't have bothered to do so anyway. He pulled her to him such that they were facing each other. Hermione stared mutely at his chest. He was wearing at least two layers of black under his very black cloak. He had on a padded leather vest which she remembered from when he had carried her earlier.

Surely someone else was going to come to check on the dead girl in the room. The young man, Dieter, was going to return at any moment. They could only hope that MacNair would deliver on his 'distraction'.

"You're going to have to look at me if we are to make this work."

Swallowing, Hermione tilted her head up. He had a strange, penetrating look on his face, as if he couldn't quite fathom how they had ended up in this situation.

"What is at the core of your wand?"

This time, her brain worked a little better. "Dragon heartstring."

His eyes narrowed a little. "Indeed? We share that in common. That should help."

"Help what?" she managed to blurt.

"Clear your mind. It is absolutely paramount that you think of _nothing _or it will affect the trajectory of our Apparition."

"You're using the heartstring in place of a wand?" she deduced.

Of course. That was why MacNair carried it around, though she suspected it was more of a keepsake or lucky charm to MacNair rather than an escape route. Lucius had called him superstitious, after all. The heartstring would act as a conduit for their magic and the fact that their wands had shared similar cores could only be a good thing.

It didn't get more desperate that this.

Apparation was powerful magic and people bloody well got it wrong plenty enough with proper, working wands and when they weren't running from certain death in the bargain.

She felt she needed to state the obvious. "Malfoy, you cannot Apparate without a wand."

"Is the alternative more palatable? Because if it is, by all means, child, I shall make my own escape and leave you to my colleagues."

"Have you done this before?" she demanded.

The muscles in his jaw tensed. She guessed that he might not have answered except that he seemed distracted. He was looking up at the ceiling, frowning at the iron chandelier overhead, which was crusted over with candle wax. She recalled that the excessive presence of metals sometimes affected the accuracy of Apparation.

He dragged her across to the other side of the room, as far away from the chandelier as was possible. Unfortunately, this meant they were now next to the bloody mess that was the bed.

There was a slight hesitation in his answer. "Yes."

"What happened?"

"I was successful…after a fashion."

Hermione eyed him. "What do you mean, after a fashion?" She hadn't meant to shout, but damn it, if she was going to die horribly in the next few moments, she deserved to know how it was going to happen.

His eyes snapped downwards. "It means that I survived the attempt and was thus able to be here this evening to save your ungrateful hide! Now, provided you can keep your mind clear and not interfere with my concentration, I mean to do this without killing either of us."

"Okay," she said, blinking rapidly. Her gaze dropped to his chest again. This was followed softly by another, almost inaudible, "sorry."

Death by splinching had to be one of the worst, most painful ways to die. Not the least because death was not usually instant. Failed Apparators tended to survive for a short period of time in whatever, mangled form they found themselves in. Nobody read the gruesome reports in the Prophet without a shudder.

"Hold on to me," Lucius said, curtly. "Do not let go and do not look away from my eyes."

As if the holding on part wasn't bad enough. She held his uncanny gaze for the space of five breaths before it became physically impossible not to squirm. Hermione thought looking at a Basilisk might have been easier. In response, he took her chin and pulled her face back up. This time, there was no violence in his grasp, only instruction.

He seemed to be deep in his focus. "I said, do not look away."

She could smell the heartstring, held firmly in his left hand, slowly burning through his glove.

Lucius sucked in a long, deep breath. He was about to perform magic which, to her knowledge, ought to have been impossible. When he released his breath, all the strain, tension and anger seemed to leach away from his features.

"Where are you taking me?" she whispered. "Would it help the spell if I knew the location?"

"No."

And then, miraculously, she could feel the start of the Apparation spell coalescing around them. It was Apparation by degrees. She recognised the signs. The air got just a little thicker and blurry. It was happening, alright, but it was usually a quick, instant process. She had never seen it done layer by layer, as he was doing now.

Hermione started feeling fuzzy and light. Her feet felt like they were floating a few inches from the ground. The spell happened differently for everyone, but she had agreed with Ron once when he had commented on a faint lemony sort of scent that always preceded his Apparation attempts.

A hysterical laugh nearly escaped her. Here she was, kidnapped, bruised, barefoot and bloodied. One or possible two people had just recently died in the room and she was currently hanging on quite literally for dear life to Lucius Malfoy.

And she was thinking _l__emons_.

Lucius' eerie calmness seemed to be contagious. The longer she looked into his eyes, the more detached she seemed to feel. They were deep, icy pools of grey abyss and against all sense of logic, _they soothed_ her.

It was like being hypnotised. At that thought, she immediately stiffened.

"Relax," he snapped.

He demanded the impossible. Hermione had to ask. "How do I know I'm not worse off with you than I am here?"

"You don't."

Hermione supposed he couldn't be more direct than that. She thought he was content to lapse back into silence once more, but then he spoke again.

"Should you arrive at our destination healthy and whole and I am…not, you will do your best to continue avoiding capture until you reach safety. At which point, you will send word to my son to warn him. Do I have your vow on this?"

How dare the murdering bastard demand a promise from her? Draco Malfoy could rot in hell with the rest of the Death Eaters, as far as she was concerned. One self-serving deed from his evil father wasn't about to pardon the Malfoys.

But then what the hell else was there left for her to do but let herself be rescued? She was facing near-certain death where she was, not to mention the fact that they would use her to get to Harry. What did she care who was doing the rescuing?

Also, someone was outside the door now. In fact, the door was opening. She saw a homely looking face, with dark, thick eyebrows and surly features that looked like they wouldn't have been out of place in the Krum family.

Why were they still there? She felt Lucius tighten his arm around her. He was probably waiting for her reply.

"Yes, I promise!" she said, hurriedly.

He really did have a sadistic sense of timing.

The smell of lemons vanished with them.


	4. Chapter 4

-4-

Wizards have what I like to call a _troubled_ relationship with God. Or rather, it's the God-fearing folk that we have an issue with.

Picture the late middle-ages. You know the sort of people; pitckfork-weilding, torch-bearing, finger-pointing, afraid and possessed of the ability to assemble a bloody good pyre in _minutes_. If only they'd been as committed to basic sanitation, for surely more lives would have been saved by the simple act of not shitting where you eat, than what they claimed had been _taken_ by magical folk in the first place.

At one point in our long and sordid history, the Malfoys claimed to be Christian, because it meant we could leave our women alone on our estates for a week or longer without coming home to be sheepishly informed that they'd been burnt to a crisp for dispensing midwifery potions to the ungrateful Muggle peasants that worked our lands.

It could be quite easily said that Purebloods who support Voldemort's cause cannot be entirely blamed for holding a grudge. Wizards have long memories, especially the old families. The hunted and oppressed do not so easily forget what it feels like.

Organised religion has not been good to, or for, my kind. The reason for this is simple enough. Those old, long-breaded Muggles in robes--and really you'd find the sort in most Muggle cultural history--the feared and revered who chanted and gibbered, who told you that God X, Y or Z demanded exacting penance in blood or money. They knew that should the widespread existence of wizards be made known, then perhaps their definition of God would need to be _tweaked_.

There was a time that wizards _were _these men, in a history so ancient that it festers in the back of mankind's collective consciousness.

Are not wizards God-like on the surface of things? For we can do what Muggle cannot. We make of reality what we wish and we can even stave off death. Not return from death, though. Even if my former Master fancies himself something of a Jesus Christ.

In a time before Muggle science had the capacity to offer up an explanation for the differences between Muggles and wizards, a popular belief among men like Voldemort was that we were simply earthbound gods who had been denied our rightful place as deities to be worshipped by Muggles.

And that our bloodline was something so scared we should be willing, however ironically, to _die_ for its purity.

Or kill for it.

For a time, I believed this. For what youth, brought up with the myriad privileges I have been afforded due to my blood status, would argue when his elders tell him that he is and always will be, _better than someone else._ Throw in the promise of some exclusive parties, power and influence, women, alcohol, cloak and dagger secrecy and the fact that you belong to a very special, secret club, and you have a winning formula for recruitment.

And there's even a tattoo.

I do not pray to a God. I do not pray at all. I don't believe in a Christian God (or any other, for that matter) or in the archaic concept of heaven and hell. Mostly, this is because I know better. I've met the dead and what they have to tell me is frankly unimpressive.

I believe in living well and living long and to this end my association with Voldemort has, on the whole, promoted for the former. God has had nothing to do with my fortunes. If He did then you would have grim, irrefutable proof that there really is no justice in our world.

So, at the end of my Apparition, upon finding myself very obviously _not_ in the relative safety of my un-plottable Sardinian villa, I hope I may be forgiven the _"Dear God..." _that escapes me, for nothing else can quite convey my surprise. I have surely Apparated into fire, because this could be the only explanation for why my lungs are _burning_.

No, wait. Not fire. The searing pain that constricted my chest abates slightly. My breathing is staggered, but I am able now to recognise the effect of extreme cold. Ice. _Snow_. I have Apparated into the middle of a blizzard.

The cold is immense. For a few moments, I can do nothing more than merely attempt to breathe this frozen air. To pull it into my lungs is excruciating, but I need it, all the same. I register than I am standing up to my thighs in snow. There is nothing around me but deep, thick darkness. There is no moonlight, no starlight that I can discern. I have to subdue the rather distressing thought that I might have gone blind.

But then I remember that I am still holding the strand of dragon heartstring in my fist. Or rather, what is left of it. I open my hand slowly and shudder with relief. I can see the glow of the minute fibres left behind after the Apparition. As my thought processes scramble out of a state of shock, I make my decision quickly. There is no time to dally, in cold such as this.

I cup the precious strand in both hands, lest it be taken by the wind and bring it up to my face, breathing another wandless spell into that warm, sulfurous space. The fact that there is any material left to work with is a minor miracle. Surely, this additional use will finish off what is left of the heartstring. Survival is a priority right now. I cannot afford to think about saving it.

"Lumos!"

I focus on magnifying the spell beyond its usual distance. There is a chance that it may not work at all. I can barely hear my own words in this violent weather. My strength is already drained from the effort it took to Disapparate the two of us out of Voldemort's lair in the first place.

_Two of us_.

I had forgotten about the girl.

To my relief, a great, expanding wall of light erupts from my cupped hands. This is _lumos_ in distress, flying outwards, away from me in an arc. I squint as my pupils adjust to the sudden brightness. The landscape is blanketed in winter white. I see skeletal trees, a naked forest half covered under snow, miles and miles of never-ending winter behind me. It would seem I am near the edge of some sort of precipice, because the deathly white stops not three meters from where I stand, met with a dark void that I suspect is where the cliff face ends.

The girl lies a short distance from me. The white sheet I had transfigured into clothing for her is effective camouflage in the snow. I can only see her dark hair, but the rest of her is rapidly being covered by the blizzard. If she isn't already dead, I suspect it will only be a matter of minutes. And if I do not find shelter, I will be soon to follow.

The illumination provided by my spell is already shrinking back. The periphery of the light-field is closing in gradually. Without a wand or further heartstring to temper the flow, magic streams out of me in pulsing torrents, something as simple as _lumos_ is taking much more energy for me to sustain than it would ordinarily. It is like trying to fill a tiny, yet bottomless sink, with a bucket.

I take a step, only for my foot to sink back into the snow, just as deep. My boots fill with ice. This painful, slow progress continues.

The situation is deadly. Already I can feel the dangerous lethargy creeping into my limbs. I find that I can't think as sharply as I could only a minute ago. I make my way to a mass of boulders just visible above the sea of white and clamber onto it. My boots are not made for scrabbling about over ice and I nearly slip when I move to stand. While the light remains, with more desperation that I have felt in quite a long time, I scan the area for something, _anything_. A cave, an outcropping of rocks, any kind of shelter.

It takes me a few seconds to notice it. In the distance, at the top of slope, just inside the shrinking illumination field of my spell, is a cabin.

Wooden. Sound. Wtih a roof.

The structure is half buried under the snow, but this is a minor detail. All I comprehend right now is that salvation lies within walking distance. Its existence is nearly enough to convince me that there really might be a God. But as to why he would be helping _me_ is anyone's guess.

I turn back to look at the Mudblood, noting that I can't see her now. The ground has swallowed her. Leaving her where she is would be the sensible thing.

She has been nothing but an impediment. A scourge, even. Not that it matters much, but I know her death will be quick and painless. She would simply _not_ wake up.

Well, yes, I've apparently renounced the Dark Lord after more than twenty years of faithful service, in an attempt to save this useless chit of a girl. That plan has clearly gone to shite. But should I ever run into the Order, I may at least tell them that I _tried_. Surely her death now at the hands of the elements would be preferable to what she would have faced at the Revel, at my hands or anyone else's.

She's barefoot for God's sake! And clad only in one, light layer of Transfigured bed linen. The girl will die no matter what I do.

But should she survive, my pardon would likely be assured. And then all this would be worth it, wouldn't it? There is Draco's life to think of…

Damn the Mudblood bitch! Damn this! I'm probably going to freeze to death anyway. I should have exercised some common sense and mercifully snapped her neck hours ago, thus avoiding this aggravation. I find myself wading through the snow, pulling the girl's slack form out from under the light blanket of flakes that covers her. I can't help thinking that I'm wasting time risking my life just to save a corpse. Nevertheless, and cursing as I do so, I take off my cloak and wrap her in it. At least it covers her feet.

By the time we reach the cabin, my _lumos_ is working at half its previous capacity and I can barely walk a straight line. The light is no longer as bright as sunshine. It now resembles twilight. The snowfall has covered the cabin windows, but I still see the doorway. I drop the girl next to me and with my hands, shift snow in an attempt to free up the door. My breathing becomes more and more labored. It is now hard to concentrate on anything at all, but I know that the more I exert myself, the more time I'll have before I'm utterly useless.

Finally, the door is free. There is no lock that I can see, but the door handle is frozen in place. Thank you, non-existant God. Of course it would be.

I step back and try to kick the thing in. For this, I am rewarded with a great cascade of snow sliding down on top of me from the overburdened roof.

I kick it again.

A third and fourth kick succeeds in jarring the hinges. _Now_ we are getting somewhere.

I take a few steps back and run at the door, slamming into it with my shoulder and the door pops frees. It hangs drunkenly from one hinge.

The air inside greets me in a dusty plume; dank, musty and reeking of old smoke. I drag the girl inside and leave her next to the fireplace. After this, I waste no time in fitting the door back in place. The difference is noticeable immediately. We are out of the lethal wind and breathing does not seem to scorch my lungs any longer.

The omnipresent cold is another matter, however. With my _lumos_ nearly extinguished, small slivers of light barely make it through the exposed tops of the windows and the outline of the door. I waste no time clearing out the remnants of the previous fire. The state of the fireplace would indicate that it has probably been years since anyone last used it. Fortunately there is an enormous teetering pile of well-dried firewood of various sizes stacked beside the doorway.

I have a suitable stack ready in seconds. Now comes the tricky part. I could scour the cabin for Muggle matches or attempt to coax a fire from kindling, but there is no time for this. Nor need, or so I hope. Instead, I retrieve MacNair's slim, dragon-hide lined, silver case that held the single strand of heartstring. Hoping that I have guessed correctly, I tip the case over the firewood and tap it.

With a small sound of triumph, I see small flecks of gleaming heartstring float down gently onto the firewood. I hold my breath. The fireplace erupts into flames.

Relieved beyond measure, I strip off my gloves and spread my frozen fingers out towards a fire that will burn hotter and stronger than a conventional campfire. It will never snuff out, so long as enough fuel is provided. This is the wonder and miracle of Dragon heartstring.

I creep closer to the fire, on my hands and knees and close my eyes, savouring the fact that for the time being, I am going to live.

I turn now, to look at the girl.

Her long hair is a wet, straggling mess, half frosted over with ice crystals. Her skin is blue, her lips are tinged with purple. She looks dead. I find myself wishing that she was. It would be less work for me now, surely. Alas, I can see her chest rising. I can see her shivering. Her breathing is erratic, but it's _there_. Not dead, apparently, but fading fast.

Time to look after my guarantee of Ministry clemency.

It doesn't take a great medical mind to know that the fire alone is not going to be enough to pull her back from death's grip. No matter if I hold her close enough to it to singe her hair. Therefore, I work quickly. The cabin only has the one, main room with this fireplace and what looks to be a cooking area to the side. There is a loft, however, with a sloping ladder leading up to it. The thing only just manages to take my weight.

Inside this upper level, I find a single bed covered with bedding of dubious freshness. There is a homemade, patchwork quilt, mended to within an inch of its life. Beneath are three more felt blankets and a cotton sheet. There is also a flat, lumpy pillow and a woven rug over the floor. I strip the bed, roll all the bedding up inside the dusty rug and climb back down the ladder.

Beside the fireplace, I spread out some of the rug and some bedding to form a makeshift pallet. I kneel before the girl and pull my wet cloak from her none to gently. I drape it over a chair in front of the fire. The material actually _steams_. Next, I peel off her dismal clothing. With the demise of my wand, it looks like the transfigured blouse and pants has very nearly transformed back to its original bed-sheet form.

My own clothing comes off next. I can't help but curse at my sorry state. My boots and leather jerkin are the only things not soaked through. I tip ice out of my left boot. When I left my villa, I was dressed for nothing more major than a stiff, winter wind in whatever drafty castle Voldemort managed to procure for the evening's entertainment. I did not dress to survive a blizzard.

The last thing I remove is the leather strap that held my long hair in place. My wet hair is plastered to my head and shoulders.

Now nude, I sit before the dragon-fire with my legs crossed and pull the girl into my lap. Over the pair of us, I drape the cleaner of the two felt blankets and the patch-worked quilt. I wince. _Merlin's teeth_! Her fingers are freezing icicles against the comparatively searing heat of my abdomen. I reposition her hands so as to avoid painful contact with even more sensitive parts of my person.

The fire is bliss. Being out of the cold is _bliss_. I part the edge of the quilt that covers us, to lure in the fire's warmth and trap it there. My mind wants to shut down from the burden of keeping the rest of me alive. But I am unable to give in to the urge to be at ease. Not until I am able to process my new surroundings. I am supremely cautious by nature. It is a trait that has kept me alive these long years.

Details, both large and small are catalogued by my beleaguered mind. If anything, this keeps me awake for a few more minutes.

First and most alarming, _I have no idea where I am_.

Clearly, from the presence of some antiquated Muggle weaponry mounted on the wall and what looks to be several, stuffed, vacant-eyed, deer heads framed above the fireplace, I am in some sort of decrepit hunting lodge in the wilderness. What wilderness, I cannot say. I can smell badly cured hides mouldering in a corner, no doubt a home to all manner of vermin.

The rest of the cabin is sparse and painfully basic. The furniture, comprising of a table, two chairs and an armchair is rustic. I feel that we must still be somewhere in Europe, for there is not a whiff of eastern influence in anything I am currently looking at. I do not at all recognise the species of deer mounted over the fireplace, so I might hazard that we are not currently in England or Wales or in the Scottish Isles.

We could be in the Americas for all I know. Though I would be most impressed with my wandless Apparition skills if this was the case. Even with a wand, I have never knowingly attempted to Apparate across the great oceans.

There is no modern plumbing. No basin for washing, though I can see three wooden buckets hanging on a hook under the loft ladder. A Muggle device sits on the table, under a layer of dust. It is a silver and black box with buttons and dials. I will make a point to inquire as to its function, from the girl, should she awaken.

Speaking of which, the young Mudblood stirs slightly in my arms, bringing my gaze down towards her. Her cheek rests against my chest. I note, with satisfaction, that she has lost her blue tinge. There is a healthy pinkness to her complexion, having drawn warmth from me and from the fire. I take in her nude form, merely another detail like the cabin and its various contents. I had spared her barely a second glance when the Dark Lord presented her to our congregation this evening.

Now, however, I permit an informal inspection.

Silly, idealistic, naive child. A Mudblood likely to spawn more half-breeds should her coupling with the youngest Weasley male every produce any offspring. And judging from the Weasley family's propensity for breeding, this is a likely event.

There is nothing considerable about her. Not her height, form or features. Nothing I can see, outwardly, that would inspire such love and devotion from a weak-minded pureblood like Ronald Weasley or Harry Potter, the supposed saviour of the Light.

Fate has a twisted sense of humour, that we should be thrown into this situation. I recall our previous direct and indirect encounters over the course of her schooling years, none of them pleasant by any stretch of the imagination.

There had been the first meeting at Flourish and Blotts, when I had gifted the youngest Weasley brat with Tom Riddle's diary. Tiresome, meddling Arthur Weasley had stood so protectively over his little brood of miscreants. And even then, he would have known that the eventual battle would not be his to fight and that he would not be able to protect his charges for much longer. A new generation was being steered into war, with Harry Potter at its helm. If I find the Mudblood to be insignificant, it is nothing to what I thought of young, Harry Potter. That their chosen savior should be so…ordinary is nothing short of laughable.

He does not _look_ the part. But even as I say this, I admit readily to myself that the boy has since displayed flashes of startling power that has had even my Master concerned.

And he is yet to grow into manhood.

Of course I had not intended to still be in my Master's employ when the time came. This new fight is not mine. I have all the spoils I have ever wanted to amass.

My memory of the scene at the bookshop turns its focus, from Potter to the girl, the Mublood. That the Mudblood had spoken out of turn, in defence of what she had such little understanding of, had been no surprise. My son had mentioned her boldness.

Then there had been the Quidditch World Cup, her presence there again courtesy of Arthur Weasley. I had been most disappointed with my son's inability to avoid gloating over a Death Eater attack that had _yet_ to transpire. I have ever lamented his lack of subtlety. I recall the Mudblood child staring up at me with loathing as Potter and Ronald Weasley had also done, though there had been a certain quality to her hate which I confess intrigued me at the time. Bear in mind that I have seen this same expression worn on many a face. I know very well what it means to be hated.

I got the impression, as unlikely as it seemed, that she _felt sorry for me._ This contemptuous pity was there in the way her eyes did not narrow or wish me ill quite so much as the others. It wasn't insolence or arrogance, rather it was a dislike tempered by whatever ignorance-based conclusion she had convinced herself of.

_Pity the Malfoys._ Pity! For me. For my wife. Pity directed at my family.

Odd that I had put away a memory which, even after four years, still has the capacity to annoy me.

And lastly, how could I forget our memorable time at the Ministry, my subsequent failure to obtain Potter's prophecy for my Master and my eventual capture at the hands of Aurors? I daresay it was nearly preferable to facing Voldemort's displeasure for failing him yet again.

Ah, what a brave little bunch of heroes-in-training Potter and his friends were! I suppose there _is_ some fortunate sort of bliss in ignorance. Would they have been as courageous had they _known_ what they were really facing? How utterly clueless they were as to the rich and colourful array of horrors that awaited them should they be captured by us. Would Potter have brought them along had he realized this? I think not. Certainly he would not have brought along Ginevra Weasley, the Mudblood and the Lovegood girl.

I smile, because the thought provides me with a measure of satisfaction. Potter's arrogance is legendary. I believe he knows _now_, however. Truly knows. He would be able to imagine what his little Mudblood friend might be facing at this current time, at the hands of the Death Eaters.

At my hands.

I find that I am looking down at her with more animosity now, compared with the previous tired indifference. That I am risking _everything _for this girl suddenly seems so absurd, so foolish.

Had she not run away from me in the corridor, had she merely contained herself as we hid from Bellatrix, had she not…

Why are we_ here_?! I was aiming for Sardinia, not the middle of some icy hell. Belatedly, I begin to suspect that the Mudblood had somehow corrupted the trajectory of my Apparition. Perhaps she did so knowingly. That we are here in this place is not due to any mistake on my part. Of this, I am certain.

I can't help but snarl as I wrap my right hand around her neck, and flex. I can see the colour in her pale face darken slightly from this light pressure. I imagine squeezing, holding on, seeing her skin turning that recent, deathly shade of blue once more. How easy it would be.

All of a sudden, I am _livid_. Oh yes, I am mature enough to recognize largely misplaced anger and frustration when I feel it. But I direct it towards her, all the same. I am utterly furious with the girl, this waste of magical ability, this fluke, this creature that Voldemort believes deserves to have been killed in the womb. I shake her in my choking grip. Her eyes move under her closed eyelids. She is wheezing now.

There is likely one thing a girl of her age and experience would fear, possibly even above death. Her willingness to end her own life when she thought she was about to be raped and tortured for information was proof enough. In my anger, I imagine this course of action, for all of three seconds.

It would be a hollow revenge while she remains unconscious. And even if she were not, the look of her hardly inspires me to criminal lust. It is, of course, different with many of my colleagues. Some of whom only need to be presented with a hysterical female (or in certain cases, male) captive, to achieve the required state of arousal.

Sighing, I release her neck and she slumps across my lap. Her breathing takes a few moments to return to normal.

This time, my perusal of her is not so impersonal, if only because it is tinged with my frustration. Her breasts are perhaps fuller than I would have imagined (and I assure you, I have not). She does not have the lean, rangy body of a female Auror, as is favored by some Death Eaters. Unclothed, Hermione Granger is singularly unspectacular. She is thin. Her legs are long, in proportion to her height. Her hair is a rat's nest.

Plain. Below par. Boring.

Her skin is quite fine, however. I can see all of it, from my vantage point. She has apparently escaped her teen-aged years unmarred. Bookish, Draco described. Ignorant, misguided, tainted. And yet possessed of an intellect so acute, it exasperates even my son.

"She's...clever, my Lord," Draco once grudgingly said, when questioned by our Master. I think he would have preferred having his fingernails pulled out rather than admit to this fact.

Is it a fact?

For the duration of his schooling, my son has consistently been ranked second, academically, to the Mudblood. I don't think either of us can forget or forgive this detail. Frankly, I have yet to see evidence of an intellect so frightening it was purported to have sent Severus Snape reaching for a stiff drink after one apparently memorable fourth year Potions class. All I have witnessed is perhaps a small amount of grace under pressure. Although her woeful attempt to end her life likely cancels this out.

Pathetic. So much for Gryffindor bravery. She hadn't even endured a full day of capture or even a _fraction _of the torture we could have put her through. No, she is not worth a tenth of the disaster that I have taken on.

I aim to find out the exact extent of said disaster when she awakens, starting with where the bloody hell she has taken us.

Satisfied that I am still unable to unravel the mystery of my current whereabouts at present time, I give in to the noxious lethargy. I have given the fire ample fuel so I am confident that it will not die, and certainly not for lack of stoking.

The girl's shivers have ceased. Surprisingly, I do believe we are now sharing warmth, where previously it had been a one-sided affair. Her breathing belongs to the deeper, healthy sleep, not the short, shallow affair of lungs that struggle to do their job. Ill at ease with our close proximity, I detach from her slightly, to lie on my side. Her body follows, fitting into mine, knowing instinctively what it needs to survive.

I close my eyes. Exhaustion claims me. The feeling is not new. Having served my Master for over two decades, I am not unused to tasks that leave me weary to the marrow of my bones. The girl frowns in her sleep.

_Yes, sleep now, little Mudblood. You'll need your strength for the ordeal ahead. _

Perhaps we shall both live to see the next sunrise after all.


	5. Chapter 5

-5-

Hermione awoke to a kaleidoscope of discomfort. Her entire body, from her scalp to her toes, _ached_. The groaning noise was her trying to sit up, apparently. Or maybe that was just her sore joints creaking in protest.

Honest to God, she felt like she'd fallen down a flight of steps.

Her feet and hands still felt a little numb and tingly, but at least she wasn't cold any more. In fact, a light sheen of perspiration covered her. The room was actually _warm_. Her skin was clammy and her hair felt heavy against her damp, bare back. The absence of cold felt so good that she sighed with relief, stretching her arms out.

The recent array of emotions returned before her senses caught up in time to explain them. For an instant, her brain was a whirlwind of panic. The 'why' part took a little longer. It was then that she realized she was naked, once again. There was a rough, quilt thrown over her. It fell to her waist now while she sat up. Startled, Hermione gripped the quilt, holding it over her breasts.

And then she remembered all of it.

Oh God. The kidnapping. Voldemort's Revel. Walden MacNair, Bellatrix.

Lucius Malfoy…

_Where the hell am I now?_ _Or have I just answered my own question?_

Malfoy had taken her from the Revel. For reason she couldn't even begin to analyze, he had betrayed Voldemort and stolen her from his Master. They had Apparated, using MacNair's piece of dragon heartstring. He'd done it wandlessly.

_Handy skill, that. Might want to find out how he did it._

Hermione put her head in her hands, her lips forming a small, silent ' o' of belated disbelief. She remembered the poor, mutilated dead girl in the room. Malfoy hiding them from Bellatrix under a glamour. She also remembered her utter failure to keep still when Malfoy had warned her to.

He wasn't likely to forget that in a hurry. Oh God oh god oh God.

_Alright, calm down! Think!_

She tried to get her breathing under control as she swivelled her head sharply around the room, all of a sudden convinced that someone was about to pounce on her from the shadows.

No. It would seem that she was alone in this new, strange place.

She was in a small, one-room house, a cabin really, with crudely whitewashed walls and exposed, timber beams overhead. There was a healthy fire crackling in the fireplace. There was an attic with a ladder leading down from it, next to a kitchen area. Spider webs crisscrossed at nearly every corner. The floorboards were dusty and bare, though there was a rug beside the fireplace and wrinkled bedding laid down where she had slept.

On two of the four walls were murky-looking, glass-paned windows, one of which had been boarded up from the inside. The other one wasn't, though it looked like the boards had only just recently been prised off. They rested just below the window, the nails sticking out of them, rusted and bent.

The sunlight was brilliant outside. Or at least that was her first impression. It was daylight, yes, but the blinding light was sunlight reflected over…why yes, it _was _snow.

Cautiously, Hermione got to her feet, wrapping the quilt around her more securely. She walked over to the window and placed a warm palm on the window pane. Her breath immediately fogged up the glass.

It was unprotected glass. She could tell from the way it felt. There was no magic at work here. It was glass that could be broken.

_See, right there? There's a chair to smash the window!_

If she was meant to still be a prisoner then this wasn't a very sound prison. The very thought of possible escape was so sweet that a small sob burst from her.

She'd run, she'd hide! If she was smart and careful, she could-

But then the next realization squashed that hope and the loss of it was almost physically painful. She wasn't just looking at a brisk, winter afternoon. Malfoy had transported her deep into a frozen wilderness. What she was looking at outside the window was snow and forest with no end in sight. The house must have been on a hill because she found herself gawking down at a landscape that looked straight out of 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe'.

The longer she stayed missing, the more she worried about Harry and Ron doing something borderline stupid to find her. As much as they were now grown up and understood that personal feelings and attachments could not be placed above the welfare of the community and the Order, she knew _them_.

Moody and the others could counsel the boys all they wanted. It wouldn't work. They'd come for her, even if it meant doing it by themselves. She knew this because she would do the same thing for them.

That was the problem with the Light, Hermione thought, morosely. The Light had a soul. It had a conscience. Death Eaters did not. They were ruthless and practical. There was no room for sentiment or the weakness of love in Voldemort's world.

She simply had to get back to London, if only to avoid further bloodshed.

But _how_, was the question. Here she was dressed in nothing, with no shoes and no magic. She was as trapped as she'd been before. Some prisons didn't even need walls. There was no way she could escape without dying from exposure in mere minutes.

The cabin was warmth and safety, though only so long as she remained alone inside of it. Where was Malfoy? Did he even make it through the Disoperation with her? He must have, because she had no recollection of arriving at this new destination.

Where was her transfigured clothing? Someone had obviously clearly stripped her bare and then covered her with the quilt.

_Yes well, there's been a lot of that lately, hasn't there?_

Maybe this was Malfoy's emergency hideout? It was pretty basic, if so. Somehow, she imagined Lucius Malfoy living in more comfortable surrounds. He didn't seem the sort to play self-sufficient hermit in the woods.

Hermione walked to the fire, noting for the first time that although it looked standard, the heat coming from it was intense. Without it, the interior of the cabin would no doubt be a frozen tomb. She couldn't stand within a meter of it without feeling like her face was cooking.

First things first, she determined that she would find some sort of clothing. There was no way she was going to face whatever was coming with only a quilt.

By God she would be clothed _or else_.

She explored the tiny kitchen area, noting the wood-fire stove (also full of cobwebs on the inside). There were cabinets with some cheap cutlery and aluminium dishes and mugs, enough for one person. It looked like standard dining-ware meant for camping.

Hermione paused to decide between holding on to a fork or a butter knife. In the end, she picked the fork. The prongs looked like they were liable to inflict more damage than the blunt knife. It was better than nothing. If Lucius remained in the picture, she at least knew he was most likely still wandless. The playing field had been levelled.

There was a bare kitchen table with a dusty radio sitting on it. The radio looked like it had been picked up and moved recently because there was a small rectangular spot on the table roughly the same size as the unit, completely devoid of dust. There was no chord coming out of it and even if there had been there was clearly no electricity in the cabin. Hermione wiped the dust from the dial. The brand was completely foreign to her. It was ancient and had once been operated using batteries. She used the fork to pry off the battery case on the back of the unit and noted, not surprisingly, that the old batteries were rusted and had practically fused in place.

Damn. She put the radio back and continued exploring.

Two wooden buckets were hanging from a hook under the attic ladder. She then spotted a third bucket, made of metal, which was filled with water.

Hermione's thirst was so great that she had to stop herself from pouring the entire contents of the bucket down over her face. Her mouth, tongue, eyes, even the inside of her nose felt dry and parched. Sighing with pleasure, she scooped her hands into the water and drank. The tip of her tongue licked up the water droplets that gathered over her top lip, tasting the salt from her sweat. The water was sweet, so, so sweet.

"You might have used one of the cups from the cupboard instead of contaminating the entire bucket," drawled a voice from the door. A blast of cold air hit her, stinging her eyes.

Lucius Malfoy was standing at the doorway, tall, imposing and terribly black against the virgin snow behind him. Hermione's eyes widened slightly as she saw the axe he was holding casually over one shoulder and a makeshift sack weighed down with something that was leaking dark liquid in steady, fat droplets.

It was blood, she realized. The bottom of the sack was stained a dark maroon.

He was the nightmare version of the woodsman in Little Red Riding Hood. Only he wasn't here to slay the Big Bad Wolf and save her. Lucius Malfoy _was_ the wolf.

With some effort, he pushed the door back into place. The hinges looked broken and he had actually to fit the door into the frame.

This task presently completed, Malfoy removed his heavy cloak and draped it over a chair beside the fire. His face wasn't ruddy from being out in the elements, though he seemed a little paler than when she had last seen him. There were long torn strips of what looked like the bed sheet she had previously been wearing, wrapped numerous times around his neck and the lower part of his face. He unwound the scarf and set it over the back of the chair, on top of his cloak.

"You seem surprised to see me, Miss Granger. Were you hoping I had been fatally splinched, perhaps?" He sounded very calm as he sat in the chair, pulled his boots off and tipped snow out of them. Some of the snow landed directly in front of the fire and instantly sublimed into steam. His dark, sodden socks came off next.

"Where have you taken me?" she asked him.

He stared at her now. Up and down and then back up to her face again. The corner of his mouth had twitched up slightly when he caught sight of the fork she was holding on to.

"You tell me."

Funny how the cabin hadn't been at all small and suffocating until Malfoy had walked in. He was right, of course. She _had_ been hoping he'd been splinched and was lying dead and frozen out there in the cold. The bastard deserved that, at the very least. She remembered the promise he had forced out of her before their Apparition, and wondered now how he supposed to warn his son now.

"I have no idea where this is," she said, keeping her voice at an even keel. "Forgive me for assuming you knew where you would be Apparating us to."

He stood, the chair scraping slightly. Hermione held the fork to her chest with her right hand; her left hand gripped the quilt to her. She backed up against the kitchen table, but he didn't go for her.

He merely waked to the cupboard and took out a cup, which he dunked into the water bucket and then drank deeply. So much for his worry about contamination.

"Suffice to say that my intended destination was a great deal more hospitable. By all rights, the pair of us should be dead right now, frozen to death in the snow."

"If not for this cabin," she whispered. He didn't need to take _all_ the credit.

"If not for this cabin" he replied. He was still holding on to the mug, his index finger running lightly back and forth over the rim.

Hermione guessed it had been a close thing, but it still chilled her to realize he must have dragged her in out of the cold, when he could have just as easily left her. But then that would have made her rescue utterly pointless in the first place, she supposed. There were too many unanswered questions to formulate anything but the most basic of assumptions about what was happening here.

"You…" she paused to organize her words. Helplessness was not a nice feeling. "You brought me in here? You saved me again. Why?"

"You heard my conversation with MacNair. You know why." His direct way of speaking plucked at her nerves. He didn't condescend to her. It wasn't even sarcasm. He had a way of cutting through to the meat of things. "Why are we here, Miss Granger?"

"I don't have any idea where 'here' is!"

He slammed the cup down on the table. Hermione flinched. Other people got redder and rougher when they were riled. Lucius Malfoy got really, really pale.

"But you must have, my dear, because I do not recognize this place and I can assure you, this was not my intended destination." He regarded her in silence for a minute. "That leaves only one other explanation."

"Yes!" she nodded, refusing to be cowed when it was now quite obvious they were both stuck in the same predicament. It was equally obvious it was not her bloody fault. "You must have messed up your fancy, wandless Apparition, so don't go blaming me for the fact you didn't think your little rescue mission through properly!"

He considered the floor for a moment, as if the simple act of looking at her was giving him a headache. "My rescue mission, as you so quaintly put it, did not involve chasing you down and hiding in a bedroom from a deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. I trust your memory of recent events has not been affected by the cold?" He brought his head back up to stare at her, giving her the full measure of his icy stare. Thankfully, the distance between them tempered the effect somewhat.

"My memory is pristine, thank you. None of this would have happened if you sodding Death Eaters hadn't kidnapped me in the first place!"

"It was not my idea to have you kidnapped."

"Oh, that makes me feel much better!" Hermione shouted. She was light-headed and shaky and probably more than a little hysterical, but damn it, it needed to be said.

"Thank goodness I have _you_ to rely on! You, who were only a Death Eater yesterday! God knows what you were doing the day before that! Trying to murder Muggle-borns, probably! Or ambush Aurors or rape and torture Muggles for all I bloody know! What I _do_ know is that right now is that I have no idea where I am. I've lost my wand and I don't have a stitch of clothing on, which I can tell you is just a tad inconvenient. So, Malfoy, if anyone's going to be demanding questions, it's going to be me!"

She ended in a squeak, having not taken a breath during the entire rant. Also, she realized she was holding the fork out at him in a threatening manner. Part of her wasn't in the least bit surprised when he moved from his seat. He grabbed her, slamming her head on the table, cheek down. He was not Draco, who started sentences in a sneer and ended them in threats. His father was another classification of bad person altogether. That calm exterior only went so far, she remembered.

Still waters and all that shite, right?

Pain rocketed up her right jaw, into her temples and then seemed to reverberate through her entire head. She didn't even have time to cry out. He held her face firmly against the rough wood of the table, with one arm pinned beneath her. The other arm was twisted behind her back. Hermione was terrified he would break it there and then, but he seemed content to simply hold her in place. She couldn't even breathe without more pressure being pushed against her elbow joint. It was insidious, because whatever pain she experienced was due to her straining in his neat grasp.

He didn't have to do a bloody thing except just hold her in place.

Malfoy was still the very definition of calm when he spoke. "My patience has limits, Mudblood. You will speak to me in a civil manner or you will not speak at all."

"Get off me you bastard!"

He bent down and she stiffened as she felt him lean over to whisper into her ear. His considerable weight on top of her was marginally worse than the arm lock. She could smell the dampness in his robes, the cold air on his skin and another scent altogether that was just him.

"I am many things, Miss Granger, but I can assure you my parents did not conceive me out of wedlock. Purebloods are quite clear about that. Would that you Muggle vermin had similar standards."

Dear God her arm was going to break! She was sure of it. She longed to lie still, but to lie still and let him do this to her was unthinkable. She continued to struggle.

The Order had trained them on what to do in the event of torture, of course. Everyone went for the workshops, even if it meant going home looking pale, distressed and with a vial of Dreamless Sleep potion to last a week. The short of it was that there really was nothing you could do to prevent yourself from bleating anything and everything you knew in the event of capture. Torturing was never about trying to uncover useful information. Not with wizards, in any case. It was messy and time-consuming and completely redundant when you had the liquid evil that was Veritaserum.

There were only a handful of senior Aurors who had managed to build up immunity to Veritaserum and the process to achieving this was not pleasant, by any stretch of the imagination. It took years. But even then, to make things even more depressing, there was always the Imperious curse. In Hermione's mind, it was the worst of the Unforgivables.

You could spill all your secrets, slaughter your own family and even kill yourself under the effects of a strong enough Imperio. There were ways to resist, of course, but never under repeated attack, if you were already in a weakened state. And sometimes, from more than just the one curse-caster.

So really, for Aurors and anyone else who worried about being captured by the Dark, the idea was not to let it happen in the first place.

If you did end up captured, there were few options.

The DMLE was well aware of this, and so the prudent course of action was to make sure that only a few people possessed information that could be used to aid the Dark. Lots of people knew important things, but these little bits of information were only really useful when combined. It was hardly an original concept. To say that it was a hazardous line of work was putting it mildly. Ron may have only been a junior Auror, but Hermione still worried herself sick whenever he and Harry took off for parts unknown with the Order, with nary an owl or a Floo Communication for days on end.

"Has the fight gone out of you so soon, Mudblood?" Malfoy said to her, noting her sudden stillness. "I must confess this brief show of spirit is a marked improvement to your previous suicidal attitude. What a cowardly Gryffindor you turned out to be." He was idly stroking the skin on the inside of her forearm now. It was a hideous contrast to the excruciating pain in her arm.

"Trying to protect the people I love does not make me a coward. I would have gladly _died_ rather than give you anything that would have helped you!"

"Well you most certainly have not helped me, Miss Granger. I am singularly responsible for saving your ungrateful hide several times over now. So, my dear girl, as long as you remain in my care, you are going to exercise some respect when you speak to me." He shook her lightly.

"Respect?" Hermione tried for a condescending laugh, but all that came out was a nervous gasp. "Get bent you murdering monster!"

He sighed. "Such a foul mouth on you. I suppose it's only fitting for a Mudblood."

Malfoy flipped her over, throwing her down across the table so that he faced her. He used one forearm to pin her down by her neck, the other gripped her fist. The fork was still in her grasp but she couldn't use it. Her previously captured arm throbbed. Her hand lay there, numb and useless.

He leaned down, close enough that she felt his breath skate across her bare collarbone. It should have been rank and foul, like his obviously diseased soul, but his breath was clean and warm. Hermione wanted to feel a full measure of disgust at his touch, but so far, she had to settle for mere hatred-filled terror.

She turned her face to the side and squeezed her eyes shut. He was close. Too close. "Get off me," she whispered.

He hissed into her face. "Because of _you_, I am stranded. Because of _you_, I am without a wand. I have left my son out in the open, with no warning as to the danger that is likely coming for him. I'm going to ask you one more time, Miss Granger and this time you will answer me truthfully!"

"For God's sake, I'm not lying to you! I told you I don't know where we are. If I had intended on taking us somewhere else, don't you think I'd pick somewhere more suitable!" She looked at him, so he could see for himself the truth in her expression, but because he was so close, she found herself going cross-eyed. She looked at the braided leather toggle that held his robes in place instead.

"I told you to clear you mind before we made the jump. What _were_ you thinking?"

"Nothing! Everything! I don't know! A man walked into the room just before we left. I didn't think we'd make it out of there. "

It seemed like he had forgotten their final moments at the draughty castle. Hermione recalled he had been in deep concentration at the time. She could see him trying to piece together what had occurred.

He seemed to reach some sort of conclusion. It wasn't a happy one. With a growl, he suddenly released her. Hermione slid from the table and backed away until she was at the other end of the cabin, beside the door. She cradled her sore arm and waited to see what he would do next. Malfoy was glaring at her, though she sensed that his anger wasn't now solely directed on her alone.

"This man you saw. Describe him."

She blinked. "Young, maybe my age or a little older. Dark hair and eyes, surly looking." She pictured the face. "Looks like Viktor Krum, come to think of it."

Malfoy dropped his forehead into his palm and made a noise like he was in pain. Hermione didn't know what to make of this, but she'd be damned if she was going to approach him.

Then his head jerked up. He was laughing! Only it looked like a laugh that stemmed from great resignation, rather than genuine amusement. His shoulders shook and his mouth was stretched out in what you would call a wry smile, only nothing about Lucius Malfoy could ever be described as 'wry'. She saw a flash of even, white teeth before his lips thinned out into a flat line.

"Bulgaria." It was like a curse word.

"Come again?"

He didn't seem to be paying her much attention. "_Damn it to hell_. We're in the Balkan Mountains."

He spun around suddenly and Hermione couldn't help but jump as he slammed his fist into the nearest cupboard door. The thing cracked right through the middle. He must have hurt his hand too, because she heard him wince as he flexed his fingers. His anger was very intense and very male. It wasn't entirely foreign to Hermione. She'd seen Harry act like this on several occasions.

Hermione watched him warily until she felt it was safe to ask, "How do you know this?"

"The man you saw was Nikolai Iliev. He is Viktor Krum's cousin."

Her eyes widened. "That's what I remember thinking at the time! I thought he looked just like Vik- oh God," she gasped. She raised huge, brown eyes to his face. "I did think of Viktor! Then it really is my fault we're here?"

Malfoy said nothing, but his expression of confirmed suspicion was reply enough.

"I don't understand! Are you telling me the spell was so sensitive that it locked onto that one fleeing thought and transported us all the way to Bulgaria?"

"Eastern Bulgaria, I suspect. It is where the Krums live. And no," he held up his palm, "before you start plying me with idiotic questions, we are apparently _nowhere_ near civilization, let alone the town where the Krum family resides."

"You know a lot about the Krums." She didn't know why it came out like an accusation. She really didn't know anything much about him at all despite his criminal history. At the moment, everything that came out of his mouth was a small revelation.

"I know what I need to know," was his curt reply.

"But you didn't know I was to be kidnapped?"

Malfoy snorted. "No, as I have said before. If I had known, we wouldn't be here."

He looked exhausted now and more than a little worse for wear. She didn't suppose he'd managed to get much rest through the night, unless he'd managed to find additional bedding to sleep on. She'd awakened with at least three blankets, which did seem a little like overkill in the heat of the room.

Where _had_ he slept, anyway? In the loft? A vague, hazy memory nudged at her brain, but she couldn't seem to latch on to it. She let it go for now.

It occurred to her how much Lucius looked like his son, though she couldn't ever recall seeing the younger Malfoy looking this unshaven or unkempt. Father and son had always maintained immaculate appearances.

"These Revels, how often do they happen?" Hermione didn't know why she wanted to know, she just did.

He leaned against a beam and folded his arms. She wouldn't have been surprised if he told her to shut up or ignored her, but it looked like he was curious to see where she was going with her questions.

"The last Revel was held before you were born." There was a brief derisive look, probably another jab at her immaturity.

Hermione processed this information. "And in the past…you've participated in the, ah, festivities?"

Even though he was across the room, he somehow managed to look down his nose at her. "I'm entertaining your inane questions, Mudblood. The least you could do is come to the point."

"_Don't call me that_." She put all the pent up loathing and anger she felt into what she hoped was a whittling stare.

He met her stare and returned the loathing, only more effectively. Hermione hated that she was the one who looked away first. "It is what you are."

Harry once asked her why the word never bothered her that much whenever Draco used it on her. She told him it wasn't the word, per se. It was how it was used. Draco used it out of spite. He used it as a weapon to hurl at her when she angered him at school. He used it because it was the worst thing he knew to call her.

Lucius Malfoy used it because it was how he knew her. It was what he knew her to be. She wasn't Hermione Granger, capable witch, Order Member and friend to Harry Potter. In Lucius' eyes, she was a Mudblood, first and foremost. Everything else about her was a footnote.

Now, the heinous insult incensed her. "Then you won't object if I call you inbred?" Her voice shook. "Craven? A common criminal motivated only by greed?"

This wasn't just verbal sparring now. One probably did not say such things to Lucius Malfoy without lasting consequences of the physically painful kind. He came away from the beam in one smooth motion. The lines of his mouth were taut and white. She tensed, and it seemed that that was the only effect he was after.

"As much as you would object to me showing you what inbred, craven, common criminals such as I can do with helpless, captured Mudbloods like yourself," Malfoy said, slightly louder than a whisper.

She lost more colour, but pushed on. "_Have_ you willingly participated in the rape and torture of Muggles?" The question was something she was confident he would one day face in a courtroom of his peers. Right now, she simply had to know.

"Yes," he replied, without hesitation.

"What happened to the girl we saw…have you done anything like that?" Her voice cracked a little.

"Yes."

She should have welcomed the confirmation that he was every bit the monster that they all suspected him to be. But for some reason, Hermione didn't believe him. There were the true maniacs, like Bellatrix, who bought Voldemort's pureblood agenda, hook, line and sinker.

And then there was another breed of Death Eater; the self-serving, corrupting, power-hungry sort. The kind that joined because it was a way to cement their perceived status in the Wizarding World, a status which perhaps had not become so pronounced since the entry of Muggleborns. The pureblood supremacy line was the most obvious one to toe. It was certainly the oldest and most feared…

She rather suspected that Lucius Malfoy, evil bastard though he was, was not a senseless maniac. Well, not most of the time, anyway.

It was important that she comprehend fully what kind of person he was. The detailed Order assessment of him clearly no longer applied. He had done the unthinkable in openly defying his Master. Now, all bets were off as to his character and motives. If they were truly stranded together in this remote wilderness, she would need to ascertain who she was dealing with in order for them to work cooperatively.

"You are very forthcoming about your crimes to a member of the Ministry," Hermione remarked.

He was indulging her and they both knew it. "You are not an Auror. You are a glorified Ministry Librarian. Whatever I tell you is hearsay and, might I add, has the added benefit of scaring away that rather becoming blush you were sporting only moments ago."

Glorified Ministry Librarian? Pompous arsehole! Hermione was indignant enough to completely ignore his casual comment about her appearance. "You think you know what I do for the DMLE, do you?"

He looked mildly amused at her indignation. "You don't do anything for the DMLE because you don't work for that department. You spend your days cataloguing little-used spells, for posterity, I'm sure they explained it to you in similar terms. You achieved the highest NEWTs in over a century and they have set you to…" he paused, smirking just like his stupid son, "filing".

Damn. He _did_ know. Hermione didn't choose the job and there was a great deal of politics that went into her admittedly mundane assignment with the Department of Antiquities and Historical Records. Now that the Order was operating openly and with full Ministry support, there was a committee in charge of overseeing Order activities.

"Yes well. I would expect that you lot keep a tab on what Order Members get up to," she muttered to Malfoy. "That is what you do for Voldemort isn't it? You are his resource for Ministry-related information. Along with managing his gold, of course. I bet you know who the spies are in the Ministry."

Hermione suddenly stared at him, long and hard, realizing rather belatedly just how valuable he was going to be to the Light. She'd been so caught up in her own sorry predicament that she'd failed to see that. It wasn't just about getting herself back home. With a defected Lucius Malfoy, they would _win_.

"Who are the spies, Malfoy?," Hermione said, not able to keep the slightly frenzied edge from her voice. She thought of all the people she knew at the Ministry, the names, the positions, all those trusted individuals with hefty responsibilities. "Tell me."

To think that among these officials were individuals who sold information to the Dark. To believe Voldemort's pureblood supremacy dribble was bad enough, but to _not_ believe it and yet profit financially from the situation was _worse_. She wanted to know who they were so she could hate them.

Malfoy was staring down his patrician nose at her, a slight smile playing on his lips. He didn't need to read her mind to know what she was thinking. "I will spill my secrets in due course, to someone who is in a position to negotiate my demands. You are clearly not that person."

It wasn't technically an insult, it was the simple truth, but it still stung. He was right. Hermione tried to banish the familiar feeling that the Ministry seemed quite keen to give her the shaft when it didn't need her. She was in no position to offer him anything for his information. She had no authority whatsoever. She was only a junior clerk in a Department that _filed_.

So. He wanted to negotiate, did he?

She blinked at her memory of Lucius and the other Death Eaters in the Hall of Prophecies. She remembered his single-minded focus in trying to persuade Harry to hand over the prophecy. He had been so…compelling. Even then, when they were completely surrounded by Death Eaters who would have killed them on the spot, he had tried to negotiate. There had been a moment of frission-filled tension between him and Harry. The dialogue was standard. Lucius would guarantee their safety, if Harry would only hand over the prophecy. Easy-peasy.

Lies, of course. All of it.

But somehow, with Lucius delivering those lines, she had felt Harry's desperation to believe him. Maybe because the fatherless little boy that would always reside in Harry had seen a man who was only there because he'd been ordered to be there, a man who had a son the same age as Harry.

Lucius was a father. They all had dads. In that moment Hermione thought that perhaps all of them: Harry, Neville, Ginny, Luna, Ron and herself. Maybe they'd all hoped…

"The mission to the Ministry three years ago wasn't your idea, was it? Voldemort commanded you to go. The plan was never sound, but then, you don't get to offer an opinion." She narrowed her eyes in speculation. "You don't have the stomach for this anymore, do you, Malfoy? I saw your expression when you saw that dead girl in the room. You were as horrified as I was."

"_Horrified_ was I?" he drawled. "What an imagination you have, Miss Granger, as demonstrated by your highly entertaining assumptions about me."

The colour returned to her face. He had a way of making her feel like a naïve child. It also occurred to her that even though she was being terribly presumptuous about some very personal aspects of his life, he wasn't attempting to break her arm, or strangle her or scare her half to death.

He looked genuinely curious, as if he was trying to sort out some niggling little riddle.

She hated that actually looking at him in the eye made her so uncomfortable. But it was hard enough trying to read what he was thinking from his demeanour alone. His eyes gave little away, but they at least seemed to be more honest, or maybe just less well-trained than the rest of him. Right now, they registered nothing more than mild interest.

"I assure you Miss Granger, in the twenty-five years that I have served my Master, I have seen worse. On occasion, I have _done_ worse."

Hermione still didn't believe him. "If you perverted scum enjoy these Revels so much, why has it been so long since the last one?"

_Did I just call Lucius Malfoy a pervert?_

His jaw tightened.

_Er, yes, I think I did. _

"In its heyday," be began, more tightly this time, "Revels occurred during a time when The Dark Lord was still very much a man. With the usual…urges than men are afflicted with."

Hermione couldn't help it. The last thing she wanted to think about was Voldemort's former sex life.

"Oh," she screwed up her face, "_yuck_."

He looked slightly amused at her discomfiture. "I feel I should also point out that it has not always been rapine and murder. The Muggle whores procured were not always unwilling." He had the audacity to smile at her. Though she knew it was all merely for effect.

Hermione held up a hand. "Right, stop there. I didn't ask for details."

She startled a little as he started walking towards her, but stopped halfway at the fire, crouching down to tend to it. More logs were added. After this, he grabbed the sack he'd carried into the cabin and pulled out what looked like a skinny, naked pigeon. It's left a nasty, dark red smear on the floor.

It'd been plucked, blooded and gutted. Part of her was amazed that he had been able to actually catch the thing in the first place, and that he seemed to know how to prepare it for cooking. But then she supposed one picked up a few things in a long life spent in unseemly places. He may have been born with a silver spoon his mouth, but his choices didn't always allow for a glamorous lifestyle.

Hermione watched as Malfoy skewered it on a poker and positioned it over the fire, rotisserie-style.

_Food!_

Her knees nearly gave way at the thought of actually eating something. The last meal she'd had was breakfast on the morning of her capture. How long ago was that? It felt like days, though likely it was probably just over twenty-four hours ago.

She'd had a bowl of porridge with honey, and half a mandarin, which she hadn't really felt like eating in the first place. What she would have given now for the rest of that mandarin!

_Hang on, what makes you think he's going to share whatever food he's managed to catch? _

Oh, she could smell the bird roasting. Her mouth watered. This was torture.

_No, Hermione. This isn't torture. Be grateful you haven't been down that road._

Hermione watched listlessly as Malfoy tended the bird. The silence was nearly as bad as her hunger. As was her terminal failing, she decided to fill it. "On the night of the Revel, you didn't participate in anything before you decided to rescue me, did you?

"Did I participate in what, exactly?" he asked, without turning around from his roasting. His feet were bare, she noticed. They were as pale as the rest of him.

"Did you participate in any activities at the Revel?" she clarified.

"My goodness, are we still on that topic? You seem eager to hear my position on the matter. Are you perhaps wishing that our initial encounter yesterday had taken a different course? Does your legendary academic curiosity extends itself to all areas, I wonder?" He was looking at her now, over his shoulder, with one dark eyebrow raised.

At first she didn't get his twisted meaning, but when she did, her whole face burned. Her first instinct was to retort with a very Ron-like, "You wish!" but managed to catch herself in time, thank God. _That _would have been truly mortifying.

Hermione didn't think his uncharacteristically lewd comment should be dignified with an answer, so she merely scowled at him.

The fire was not normal. Hermione could see that now. It burned brighter and hotter than any usual campfire and was browning the bird quite thoroughly. She could see it sizzling.

"Is that dragonfire? Were you able to get it started from what was left of MacNair's heartstring?"

"As unpleasant as it sounds, it would seem we both owe Walden MacNair our lives, however indirectly," was his terse reply. "Unpleasant and ironic," he added, under his breath. MacNair had been a Ministry executioner, after all.

It wasn't long before Malfoy took the bird off the fire and using a fork, slid it off the skewer. He walked to the kitchen and took a square metal container from the cupboard. The entire cabin was filled with the scent of what smelled exactly like roast chicken.

Hermione slumped into the armchair, wondering how she was going to survive the next few days. She pressed her fingertips into her eyes, hating the tears that squeezed out.

Dear God, what the hell was she going to do?

"I want to go home," she whispered to herself.

"Likewise," came the clipped response.

Lucius was standing before her, having torn the bird into roughly two halves. He held out one portion to her. She stared at the cooked meat. Her hesitation was due to surprise, not suspicion, but he wasn't to know that.

His eyebrows snapped together. "I don't have the means to poison your food, Mudblood. Though the inclination, I might add, is another matter."

Meekly, she accepted the food. Her appetite had progressed well past 'famished' into the category she would henceforth classify as 'delirious hunger'.

She didn't bother breaking off bite-sized pieces with her fingers as Malfoy seemed to be doing. He was sitting in the chair nearest the fire. Hermione brought the piece directly to her mouth and tore off strips of meat. They ate in a silence that was punctuated by the crackling of the fire and the occasional distant sound of snow falling off a bough outside.

The whole situation was ridiculous. Here she was, mostly naked, sitting in a snow-bound cabin across from Lucius Malfoy, eating admittedly delicious, barbequed bird.

He was watching her demolish her portion of the meal with an expression she couldn't make out. Disgust probably. He had to be just as hungry as she was and of course there wasn't so much as a _smear_ of grease over his mouth after he was finished. He had to be hungry still. The bird wasn't enough for one of them, let alone two appetites and him being a much bigger person.

The quilt had slipped a little during her meal and she quickly hiked it up. "I'd kill for some clothing," she sighed.

Malfoy stood. The top of his head nearly reached the lower beams of the ceiling. "Trust me, I derive no pleasure in having you constantly nude in my presence. The situation is distressing enough as it is."

She sent him a withering look.

"As it happens, we are in luck," he informed.

Hermione watched as he climbed up the attic ladder. She heard the sound of something heavy being shifted. And then he threw down a large tartan suitcase, which bounced and skidded to a halt in front of her. She stopped it with her foot.

Hermione quickly sucked the roasting grease from her fingers before kneeling down to unzip the case. "This was upstairs?"

"Among other things. Happily, there are some meagre supplies in this cabin. It would seem that it is some Muggle's idea of a retreat." He stared around the room, wrinkling his nose slightly. "Why, I cannot say?"

She wanted to add that some people actually _liked_ living it rough. Some people actually found it challenging and fun. Malfoy's idea of fun was levitating Petrified Muggles over a terrorized group of Quidditch fans. But the retort was waylaid by the realization that she was actually looking down at clothing.

Clothes! Hallelujah! It was men's clothing, but who gave a toss really?

She ransacked the suitcase. There were quite a few items, including some wonderfully ghastly long-sleeved, button-up shirts, two sleeveless thermal spencers and a pair of long-johns (yellowing, with holes), thick corduroy trousers, one in brown, another in mustard and several enormous jumpers that were so riddled with pilling you nearly couldn't make out what their original colours were. There was also a plastic bag, thin and discoloured from age, filled with rolled-up woollen socks and several pairs of men's underwear. The elastic on several of the briefs was cracked and flaky.

None of that mattered. The clothing was clean, though she would have put it all on even if the clothes had been mud-caked.

Not caring that Malfoy was watching her, Hermione hurriedly pulled on a pair of the briefs under the quilt, noting that she was going to have to find something to tie them around her waist to keep them up in the long term. She pulled on the mustard-coloured trousers next and then managed to slip one of the thermal spencers over head while keeping the quilt still clutched to her chest. She had to roll the top of the trousers down twice to stop them from slipping down her narrow hips. Still, that was nothing a makeshift belt wouldn't fix.

When that was done, she let go of the quilt with a loud and appreciative sigh and winced at how cramped her left hand had become from holding on to it for so long. Malfoy looked on, disinterestedly, or so it seemed. Once however, his gaze did dip lower to her chest where her visibly erect nipples were pushing against the thin, fabric of the spencer.

Hermione could hardly help how clammy she felt. She was goosebumps all over. The singlet was slightly translucent as well, which was why she wasted no time donning a shirt and then pulling on the thickest jumper of the lot.

Lastly, she sat back in the armchair and rolled on two pairs of socks per foot. Modesty and propriety and improved survival odds had been restored! When it was done, she stood once again, feeling a little sheepish in her obvious relish of the clothing. Especially in front of Malfoy.

She felt uncomfortable displaying any kind of strong emotion in front of him. Maybe that was because Malfoy's own emotional range seemed so limited.

So far she'd witnessed 'angry'.

That was about it.

No wait, there was also seductive. But seductive wasn't an emotion. Hermione remembered how Malfoy had spoken to Bellatrix, how his voice had turned from its usual sharpness. It had been low, alluring, and incredibly gentle. That moment's distraction was what had caused Bellatrix's demise. Was she really dead, though? The blow to her head had looked hard enough to kill.

Dear God, she really was trapped with a murderer, wasn't she? He'd even admitted as much.

Hermione continued to dig through the remainder of the clothing in the suitcase, pausing momentarily to single out items that could prove useful. Eventually she stopped altogether when she pulled out a tiny pair of denim overalls. There were also vests and jackets that had obviously belonged to a baby. At the very bottom of the suitcase was a pair of black, leather boots, no bigger than her open palm. They were scuffed. Nothing in the suitcase was new, it had all been worn. Pre-loved, as they said.

She sat back on her haunches then, staring at these items, quite suddenly, she felt inexplicably sad.

"Whoever once owned these items, they have not returned for many years." Malfoy's sleek voice punctuated the sudden gloom.

"Yes," Hermione said, frowning at the tiny boots. She thought maybe Malfoy might be feeling some of the melancholy that seemed to emanate from the contents of the suitcase.

She looked up at him, then, at his clear, cold grey eyes. And that was more than enough to snap her out of her unproductive, sentimental mood. "Thank you for the clothing," she told him. Murderer or not, she meant every word.

"You would have found the suitcase eventually."

Hermione wasn't in the least bit surprised at his deflection of her gratitude. "You mentioned that there were other supplies. What else did you find?"

He must have been feeling the heat of the cabin now, because he unbuttoned the outer layer of his robes and slid them off with a soft swoosh. They landed over the back of the chair, on top of his cloak. Then he removed the padded leather vest, leaving a collared, starched black shirt with ornate silver, filigreed buttons. He undid his cuffs and evenly rolled up the sleeves with deft fingers. The hair on his forearms was darker than the hair on his head. He had a silver ring with a green stone set into it, on his right index finger.

On his left arm, the dark mark was still vividly black against his pale skin, though Hermione knew it would fade once more. Malfoy noticed her looking and she immediately averted her eyes, cursing at her own inability to not gawk.

"There are several crates of what I presume is Muggle food buried in a structure behind this cabin," he said. He was searching through the pockets of his cloak.

"Buried?"

"Yes, buried. The tops of the containers are visible, but the majority of it is obscured beneath frozen earth. It is liable to remain there unless I find something to dig out the crates with."

She could tell he'd been looking unsuccessfully, from the note of frustration in his voice. "Do you know what kind of food it is?"

"No."

"Then how do you know it's food?"

He found what he was looking for in his cloak pockets. Opening his hand towards her, he held aloft a small quantity of what looked like grain. "Because there were also sacks of oats, barley, flour and three drums of oil inside the room. Some of the grain is rancid, but the flour has kept well."

"Sounds like someone meant to survive here for quite a while," Hermione concluded. _Or hide,_ she couldn't help thinking.

"Evidently," he drawled.

"Did you see any way off of this mountain?"

Malfoy was dusting his hands off now. "Not yet, but if it exists, I shall find it."

It was a strong indication of how desperate Hermione was feeling that she latched on to the supreme conviction in his voice and let it thaw the cold dread that had overtaken her as soon as she'd realised where they were. If there was ever to be positive use for Lucius Malfoy's bloody-minded determination, then this would have to be it.

The idea of relying on him for survival was crazy. But the fact of the matter was that they were going to have to share; food, shelter, clothing and the life-sustaining fire that was burning behind him. It was galling to speculate that he was probably more knowledgeable about what they would need to do.

Older didn't mean wiser. Hermione knew this better than anyone. In this situation however, it just meant that Malfoy had had more time to gather useful experience in his life. She was not an idiot, but books smarts only got you so far. Her knowledge on the matter of survival in the wild was confined to what she'd read in a book or seen on a screen. If he was planning to return her to the Ministry in one piece, well then, their goals were one and the same.

"And on the off-chance we can't find a way off the mountain by foot, what happens then?" she asked him.

"Then Miss Granger, you'd best get used to having me for company, because we would be here until the ice clears come Spring."

Hermione did the math in her head. It was only the start of December. If the Balkan Mountains experienced a winter like the rest of Europe, then they would be trapped there together for the next three months.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I had to add a year to Hermione's age to keep in with the 1998 timeline I have in mind. She is nineteen here. Not eighteen (though most of her former schoolmates would still be eighteen in December of 1998). Lucius remains the same age as I'm aiming for his birthday to be as late in the year as possible. He is still 43.

Thanks for your positive reviews! They most definitely keep me motivated to write this!

-6-

Narcissa Malfoy swept past the timid servant who answered the front door of Malfoy Manor. She noted that the previously ghoulish-looking iron knockers had been replaced with simple, heavy, brass rings. She didn't know whether she approved of this or not. The old knockers could be heard clear to the back of the Manor.

The butler was new and had never before met the former mistress of Malfoy Manor, but he was intelligent enough to recognize what Narcissa had once _been_.

"I will get Master Draco at once, Madam," said the young man, with as much gravitas as it he could manage. He practically ran from the foyer.

Narcissa was left tapping her foot against the marble floor for several minutes, observing with distaste that the enormous flower arrangement sitting on a round table in the middle of the foyer was packed full of lilies.

Draco was allergic to lilies.

Also, the floor was in dire need of a polishing. That was the problem with paid help. It tended to stop at five pm. The running of a house as large as this was an all-day, indentured-labour sort of job. Pity the Ministry didn't allow Draco any more house elves.

Draco appeared at the top of the central staircase. He hurried down to greet her. "Mother."

"Dearest," she responded, stepping forward. She enveloped her only child in a flurry of perfume, black silk and fur-lined cashmere.

It never ceased to surprise her how much Draco looked like Lucius. The resemblance only seemed to increase each time they met. It was especially evident now that he was nearly as tall as his father. The one noticeable difference was Draco's eyes.

Draco had her eyes; they were a bright, airy grey that could look blue if he happened to wear anything lighter than a deep azure. Lucius' eyes were also grey, but they were darker and arguably the anti-thesis of airy.

She smiled at her son. "I have come to discuss your allowance."

Draco rolled his eyes. "God, this is tedious," he muttered. He eyeballed a bust of Albus Dumbledore, which was seated on a plinth pedestal beside the front doors.

Dumbledore smiled beatifically at mother and son. There was an unmistakable 'click' every time the bust blinked.

"Yes, mother," Draco announced blandly, though his expression was one of utmost resignation. "_Let us retire to the drawing room to discuss this terribly important and private issue_."

Ordinarily, Narcissa would have rolled her eyes at her son's attitude towards the enforced Ministry surveillance at Malfoy Manor, but the situation was too dire. Why the DMLE had chosen Dumbledore's bust was no mystery. They probably hoped that the Headmaster's visage would spur some latent schoolboy guilt in her son. He had been a prefect, after all.

Then again, so had Lucius.

Narcissa linked her arm through Draco's as he led her to the drawing room in question. "You could be a bit more subtle," she whispered. "They may be droll at the DMLE, but they're not idiots."

"I don't do subtle," Draco said, through gritted teeth. "And as it happens I actually _do_ have some concerns about my allowance. I'm not receiving nearly as much as I would like."

"Nothing you have just said is news to me, of course," Narcissa said, patting his hand consolingly.

They reached an enormous drawing room located in the western wing, which was the one place Draco was allowed some semblance of privacy. As he was still officially a lawful British wizarding citizen, the law permitted him this one room. Naturally, he picked the largest. Sometimes, he even slept there when he was sick of the prickling sensation he got from being watched all the time.

Draco shut the door and turned to his mother. "News travels fast. You've heard then?"

Narcissa sat on a velvet upholstered daybed. "Of course I've heard! I had three Death Eaters at my doorstep not an hour after it supposedly happened."

Draco's eyes narrowed at this. "They are not allowed to visit you like that. Father forbade it."

Narcissa waved a slender hand in dismissal. "Yes well, your father is not here to check his underlings, is he?"

"What in Merlin's name is going on?" Draco stood before the unlit fireplace, one hand on his hip. "I've been getting information in bits and pieces. You have no idea how frustrating it is to not be able to ask someone for details! What has happened at this Revel that has everyone so tight-lipped and terrified? MacNair sent me an owl this morning telling me not to leave the Manor unless specifically required to by my Master. I very nearly owled Goyle to ask what happened, seeing as _he_ was there. "

Now his mother was frowning. She was beyond thankful that Draco had been excused from attending the Revel due to the Ministry surveillance over him. Voldemort was not usually the sort to except a negative RSVP.

"You will not speak of this to anyone! You cannot afford to draw a spotlight to your activities."

"When am I _not_ under a spotlight? All I am allowed to do is cause minor mischief, and that's when I am even permitted a mission in the first place. I can't step outside the house without being tailed by bloody Aurors!"

"We all pay a price, don't we?" Narcissa replied coolly.

Draco sank down into a chair. "Mother, don't start."

"I can't help it. I'm your mother," she snapped.

"And I am my father's son!"

Narcissa examined her manicure. "More's the pity, if you ask me."

Draco made a frustrated sound. "Will you tell me what has happened or won't you?"

"The official story is that your father and your aunt took it upon themselves to steal away with an extremely important hostage for purposes that are yet unknown at this point, though we can certainly hazard a guess."

Narcissa waited for Draco's mouth to close. This took a while.

"Are you…they're saying that father ran off with…with _Aunt Bella_?"

"Your Aunt is missing," Narcissa informed even-toned, "and so, conveniently, is your father. They were both last seen at the Revel. The hostage was in your father's charge at the time. One young Death Eater is still recovering from an assault, which they suspect was perpetrated by either your father or your aunt in their bid to escape. When this witness awakens, they will question him."

"Has everyone lost their minds!" Draco bellowed. "Father and Aunt Bella? And that they chose to take a prisoner from the Dark Lord? That's suicide!"

"Keep your voice down!" Narcissa scolded. "And yes, I have pointed out to certain parties that singular acts of selflessness are not quite your father's forte. And that my dear sister's already tentative grasp over reality is not conducive to planning such a tricky manoeuvre."

"She's crazy enough," Draco said, nodding. "But she's also loyal to her bones."

"I concur."

"This whole running away together business…" The topic was clearly unsavoury to Draco. "She's wanted to have it off with Father for a while now, hasn't she?" Draco added, in a much quieter voice.

Narcissa wrinkled her nose. "Don't be crude, Draco."

"Well, it's true, isn't it? No one talks about it, but we all know. She's been like that ever since…since the, uh-"

"Divorce is not a dirty word," his mother supplied, with narrowed eyes.

"It is when you're a Pureblood."

Narcissa stood. She was calm in the face of her son's anger and bitterness about the demise of his parents' marriage. "Purebloods are not immune to bad matches. You'd do well to remember that."

"You were happy once. That's what _I_ remember," he added, almost defensively.

She shrugged, but Draco could see the old pain in her eyes. "That was a different time. Your father was different."

Draco shook his head. "You're wrong. He's still the same."

Narcissa strode over to her son. She smoothed the lapels of his robes, picking off minute pieces of lint here and there. "He isn't Draco, which is why our acquaintances are so quick now to believe the worst of him."

"But do _you_ believe that he's really done what they're saying?"

She didn't reply, didn't look up. And that seemed to answer the question.

"He still cares for you," Draco added.

Narcissa marvelled at the fact that she and Lucius managed to create a son who despite his parentage, despite the brutal realities he'd been force to face at such a young age, was still something of a romantic. She'd been in a state of acute grief when he'd taken the Mark a year earlier, even though she'd known it was inevitable.

There was no other recourse for any son of Lucius Malfoy.

Eighteen years earlier, by the time she'd discovered her pregnancy, it'd been too late to take the potion that would have ensured a female child. All she could do was _hope_ for a girl.

Narcissa was not a Death Eater; had never been one. Likewise Prudence Parkinson, Karina Goyle, Yvette Crabbe, Patricia and later, Cillette Avery. Too gently bred to soil their hands with Muggle blood. Too delicate for field work. Although a quick glance at the sizeable Cillete might have adjusted your opinion about the latter point.

In severing her marriage to Lucius, Narcissa had effectively ended her active association with Voldemort. Though really, that association had mostly entailed looking beautiful, entertaining Death Eaters when they came calling and keeping Lucius' secrets. Only a select few women had been invited to take the Mark. And arguably, all of them had been oddities of their sex, deviations from the norm who would never have been content to play a purely decorative role in a Death Eater marriage.

If you loved the man, then you learned to tolerate his job. Lucius was not easy to love in the first place and his sideline work had been just as bad.

But love him, she did, in her own way. Among the old Purebloods families, he alone seemed to truly _fit_ the image. Narcissa had been raised to stare in unblinking awe at that image. Just as Lucius had been raised to protect and progress all things Pureblood.

"Draco, the only thing your father cares for in this whole world, even more than himself, is you." Narcissa stood on her toes and kissed her son on the forehead. "And that, my dear boy, is saying something. Now, please walk your mother to the door. I have to get back to my house before news of my visit reaches certain ears. No doubt I will have company later this afternoon."

Something occurred to Draco. He looked pained all of a sudden. "Mother, the hostage is Hermione Granger, isn't it?"

Narcissa was alarmed. At this stage, the less Draco knew, the more truthful he was going to seem to anyone who wanted to question him. "How on earth did you know that?"

"I'm expecting a visit tomorrow, from Potter and his Auror supervisor. They spoke to me via Floo just before you turned up. Potter didn't say it was an option not to receive them. He looked…" Draco recalled the image of Harry during their brief Floo conversation. "He looked like his dog had just died."

"You will take the utmost care when you speak to them! Do not do or say anything rash!"

"Mother, I haven't done _a thing_ since Potter's engagement party and they haven't a shred of proof to indict me for that even," Draco retorted hotly. "Certainly nothing as foolhardy as abducting that stupid Mudblood! Of all the ridiculous ideas! Whose was it anyway? It was Dieter Roggering wasn't it? The little sod's got more ambition than he does brain cells."

"Fortunately, I am not privy to those kinds of details," Narcissa said, with her nose in the air. "The only reason I'm involved in this mess is because it concerns your father."

"They thought you might be hiding him at your St. Petersburg's address," Draco concluded.

Narcissa sighed. "As unlikely as that sounds, I suppose they need to cover all possibilities. Lucius in a St. Petersburg winter! Can you imagine? I'd never hear the end of his complaints. Granted, we have no idea where this apparently unplottable hideout of his is currently situated, it is sure to be somewhere temperate."

Draco snorted. They were avoiding thinking the worst; that his father was injured or worse and in the company of the walking nightmare that was Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Yes, he's been saying how adverse he is to colder climates since Azkaban. I wish he told me where he has been keeping house lately."

Narcissa squeezed her son's hand. "The less you know, the better, Draco. Your father is well aware of that. Not to worry. Wherever he is right now, I imagine it to be safe. And most likely warm."

"With room service," Draco muttered, without much feeling. And Hermione Granger, apparently.

**

They feed you twice a day in Azkaban.

Once in the morning, usually just after sunrise, and then once again at midnight. You go to sleep on a partially full stomach and as soon as you awaken, you eat again. This is calculated.

Long daylight hours go by without any food and not surprisingly these are the hours when you find yourself most plagued by hunger and during which interrogations take place. The phrase 'gnawing hunger' exists for a reason.

The food is almost certainly spat in, of course. It is no better than sick-bed gruel; something that may have started its culinary journey as stew, but then too much water was added, and then more still.

Our meals were never designed to provide anything but the most basic nourishment. The food does not satisfy, it does not please and it certainly does not inspire even a modicum of contentment. You grow dull, listless and vacant after being fed like this for a while. You stop caring. The cold gets to you, even in the warmer months.

They do other things to you in Azkaban. Worse than the food, which at first I didn't think was possible.

There is no Wizarding Constitution, but not for lack of trying.

Wizards from different countries try not to get along if they can. Trying to nag the Javanese wizards, for example, to give up their penchant for shrinking the head of anyone who so much as looks at them funny is not an easy feat. I believe the Ministry sent several representatives, none of whom made it back with all their body parts in the right proportion.

Many of the more developed wizarding nations, however, have managed to agree on a set of basic statutes. Very basic and very general, with loopholes you could drive the Knight Bus through. It is difficult to govern such a varied group a beings. Forget multi-cultural, the British Ministry of Magic has jurisdiction over multiple species, the multi-spectral, the dead and several surviving accidents that defy all attempt at classification.

The Ministry of Magic oversees Magical Britain, which operates as a distinct and sovereign entity outside of Britain proper. We do not abide by their laws, either the good ones or the bad ones. And so prisoners are treated how they deserve to be treated. When that prisoner happens to be a Death Eater, well then…

At least you know Dementors don't hold personal grudges. Or have deceased family members they may wish to avenge. Dementors are not cruel. They don't _dement_ out of choice.

Azkaban's operations are not covered under the Muggle's Geneva Convention. I know this because I instructed my legal representation to look.

Oh yes, we _are_ assigned legal counsel. This fact may surprise you.

It is merely a formality, really. The young chap they sent me seemed to be comprised mostly of gangly limbs and Adam 's apple. A sharp rebuke from me might have done him in, he was _that_ terrified. Had the food been better, I might have summoned the energy required for sympathy.

We are supposed to receive (or at least be _seen_ to be receiving) legal representation because the Muggle Prime Minister sends an envoy to the Ministry of Magic every few years. Ostensibly to check that Azkaban isn't employing Inquisition-type techniques on its inmates.

And to be sure, they aren't. Even operating a pair of pincers requires more skill and finesse than simply kicking an inmate in the kidneys until said inmate haemorrhages internally.

Why the Muggle envoy comes is a point of much speculation. I get to speculate with more ferocity than the average wizard because prior to my fall from Ministry grace, I was the one that was charged with welcoming the man. I would take the Muggle into my home, feed and flatter him, fill him with cognac that costs more than his monthly wage and then answer his bumbling questions. The alcohol did go some way to dulling the pain of such a tedious activity.

I'm convinced the Ministry might have picked a better host. Arthur Weasley, for example. The man is besotted with Muggle culture, after all. But I suspect Fudge had wanted the envoy to have a certain impression of what it is to _be_ a wizard. And let's face it, Weasley's lopsided, lean-to of a home doesn't exactly inspire awe.

Well, I suppose incredulity _is_ a kind of awe.

Others speculate that links with Muggle Britain must be undertaken and nurtured due to the significant proportion of British citizens who have one foot in both the Muggle and Magical worlds. What happens in Wizarding justice matters because it might be Mr. Friendly Muggleborn from Down the Street whose kidneys are being kicked in by the Azkaban guards.

However, I suspect that the envoy is sent to check on the nature and uses of certain spells. Not the sort that polishes your shoes or takes the wrinkles out of your robes. They seem to be terribly curious about the Unforgivables, or spells like _reducto_ for instance, and how we are now using amplified versions of it to demolish entire streets for reconstruction.

They wish to know about time turners and the highly explosive qualities of Dragon's blood.

Ministry officials may look stupid (I refer here, unfailingly, to Arthur Weasley), but we can spot a lame excuse for diplomacy when we hear one.

So we tell them instead about _accio_ and _lumos_ and spells that take the lumps from your gravy. We may also give them a list of ingredients for a few healing potions, much to the lament of a certain, former Potions Master.

The inmates of Azkaban know when the envoy is to visit the prison. We know because we are taken out of our cells, which undergo a much-needed hosing down. We are bathed, given a shave if we need one and new clothing. We are then sent back to our cells and warned that to speak to the Muggle is to risk the aforementioned kidney-abuse.

I was in Azkaban for six months after my capture, three summers ago. Six months is _nothing_ compared to Bellatrix's eleven years. If I hadn't known her to be certifiably out of her tree before she went in, I would have said that Azkaban Dementors and human guards robbed her of her sanity as surely as its dismal meals eventually robs all prisoners of their will to rebel.

Yes, I realize that I do tend to harp on about the food. I have eaten some truly horrific things in my time, in the name of survival. Therefore this should give you some idea of how disturbing the contents of this cooking pot are, because the first thing I am reminded of when I look at it is _Azkaban_.

"What is this?" I ask, staring down at a substance resembling oat-flecked mud.

"This is lunch," the Mudblood tells me, with a hint of challenge in her terminally shrill voice.

'This' looks more like what Kalahari Bushmen use to build homes. She is trying to stir the food with a stick, though I think the food seems to be winning.

All I want to do is to undertake a thorough survey of the area, to try and ascertain how far up we are and if there is an accessible way down this mountain during winter. Someone was daft enough to build a cabin here, so surely there would be a route of some sort to the lowlands. A pass or a road that would have been visible enough in the warmer months, but hidden now under the snow.

Alas, my scouting mission will have to wait. Another serious blizzard may well bury us if we are unprepared. I have spent the entire morning hacking at the frozen ground with the axe I found in the loft, in a bid to free up the Muggle food that still lies mostly buried there. I have thus far managed to extract several tins of peas and one containing peaches. The peas were fine, but the peaches were slightly fermented, the juice nearly alcoholic. We consumed all of this in our first two days here.

Now, into our third day, there is no more tinned food and our efforts with the oats and flour have been less than successful.

My palms are chafed and bleeding because I chose not to use my already damaged leather gloves today (one of them having been bitten through by the Mudblood at the Revel). A woollen pair from the suitcase I discovered is not proving to be enough protection for the work I am undertaking. I pull them off when using the axe and then slip them back on when I start to lose feeling in my hands.

All the remaining sacks of grain and flour have now been moved into the cabin. I have kept them in the loft so that they may remain partially frozen. Storing them in the warmer lower level would result in spoiling due to rapid thawing.

After several hours of handling the axe, I find my hands can no longer form a firm grip over the haft any longer. Frustrated, I return to the cabin to defrost.

At first I charged the Mudlood with the task of clearing snow from the doorway and our one, usable window, so that we have some light in the cabin. The tiresome girl neglected to remind me that she is still without shoes, and after noticing her limping as she shovelled at the snow using a rusted, iron skillet, I ordered her back inside lest she develop frostbite and die.

I confess that I cannot be bothered saving her life for the--let me see--possibly fourth or fifth time now. If she intends to kill herself from sheer stupidity, than I shall support the concept of natural selection and not stand in her way.

On my third trip back to the cabin, carrying a load of firewood and twigs, I notice the Mudblood attempting to tie animal hides around her feet with the strips of bedding. She stands before me, looking irritatingly pleased with herself and her makeshift boots, but then grimaces at the stink that is coming off the badly cured hides. I ignore her, though trying to ignore the stench emanating from her new footwear is slightly harder.

"I can be useful now," she insists, all earnest brown eyes and eagerness. In her quest to not be a pestilence, she has forgotten that she is afraid of me. "Just tell me what you need me to do."

I suddenly feel a wave of sympathy for what Snape must have had to endure on a daily basis.

"Try not to die," I snap. I nearly took my head of pulling the blasted axe out of the ground where it had stuck, and am in no mood to alleviate her feelings of uselessness.

She is undaunted. This is not news to me. I suspect that it probably takes a lot to put the Mudblood off an idea once it has burrowed its way into her bushy head.

"What would you like me to do after I clear the snow from the doorway?" she asks, with enough haughtiness to make me eyeball her.

"Catch and cook dinner," I throw over my shoulder, as I walk out the door yet again.

There. I thought that should occupy her for a while.

**

"So it took you _two hours_ to mix oats and water together on a stove?"

Hunger and cold have made me irritable, so perhaps my tone comes across as more waspish than weary. My voice is certainly raspy from the dry air. I have been outside in this frozen hell for most of the day now and am in no mood to bicker with the Mudblood. I happen to be in excellent physical condition, but the simple act of trudging through thigh deep snow in this high altitude, back and forth to the storage pit behind the cabin, has rendered me spent.

Tomorrow, I swear I shall make snow shoes or die trying.

Under her patient façade, I can see the Mudblood is seething. She doesn't take kindly to being ignored or treated like the child that she is. Somehow, she manages to speak through gritted teeth. "It took me two hours because I had to clear out the stove first and then get a proper fire going. And it was meant to be oat cakes."

It is a small mercy that she has taken off her fetid boots. I do not spot them anywhere, so I gather she is keeping them up in the loft. Lest the smell spoils our appetites, probably.

Not that I have much of one after inspecting our alleged meal.

"I am not eating that," I tell her, as I sit on the chair beside the fire and peel off my boots, cloak and robes. I try not to groan as I do this. It has been my habit to wear only my linen shirt and trousers inside the warmth of the cabin, though I daresay both are in dire need of a thorough scrubbing. I contemplate asking the Mudblood to do the honours.

At this point in my adventure, I think I would trade amnesty for a long, hot bath. Right now, I would probably trade the Mudblood for a bottle of Ogdens without a second's hesitation.

"If anything, you can use that concoction to patch the hole in the roof," I mutter.

She sucks at a corner of her bottom lip, still holding on to the stirring stick with a clump of cement-like oat porridge stuck to the end of it. I note that she has braided her wild mop of hair. It is so curly that she hasn't needed to tie off the end of her braid. Her hair holds on to itself. The combination of dark yellow trousers and lumpy, oversized orange jumper isn't doing wonders for her slight frame or her colouring.

"It's edible," she insists. "Here, _look_."

I watch, purely out of scholarly interest. There is also the small fact that I think my knees have locked into place for the time being. I look at her as she chews, and chews, and then frowns as she continues to chew. I say nothing as she walks over to the drinking pail and scoops out some water to wash the oats down.

"See?" she says, almost daring me to make a snide comment. "Edible."

"Miss Granger, my shoes would probably be edible if I boiled them for a few days. That doesn't mean they deserve the title of 'lunch'."

The girl takes everything literally. Her eyes actually drop down to my boots, which I have left beside my chair. She looks at me again, eyes narrowed. "Ha," she says, "Ha-ha."

Bugger her wet oat cakes. I'm going to murder my own food. I force myself to rise, holding on to my groans.

"You don't mean to kill that other bird, do you?" she asks, suddenly hovering at my elbow.

Not this again. The issue of the _other_ bird has been a point of contention since our first meal together. Thus far, at roughly five-thirty in the morning for the past three mornings, some sort of dove has taken upon itself to perch on our one, un-boarded window ledge and chirp the arrival of a new day.

Given our circumstances, I should think it useful to have a nature-provided alarm clock awaken us. There is much to do each morning upon our waking, to simply ensure that we are able to survive the remainder of the day.

If only the blasted thing would leave after having served its purpose. But no, it stays at the window and launches into a decibellic onslaught spanning several octaves. I can hear it now, tweeting away.

It is not here by accident. I suspect we ate its mate on our first morning here and it's been calling for it ever since. Trust the Mudblood to react with guilt for having enjoyed eating its spouse.

I walk towards the table, where I had left the fireplace poker I used for roasting previously. It needs a cleaning before I roast anything on it again.

The girl follows. "Don't kill that bird." She holds her hand out towards the still-steaming cooking pot. "We have perfectly, edible, nutritious food right here and you've brought back more from that storage shed."

Too late, she realizes her error.

"Miss Granger," I say softly, as I pick bits of burnt grease from the poker. "I am quite sure I didn't just hear you telling me what I can or cannot eat."

She's been holding on to her tongue, ever since my threats on the first day. I can see her entire body go rigid at my proximity. But then that tension dissolves with her short gasp.

"Good Lord!" she exclaims. "What happened to your hands?"

They _are_ a mess, I realize. My right palm, in particular, looks like it's endured a close encounter with a cheese grater.

"They're liable to get infected if you don't treat them."

She is silent for a moment and then seems to make up her mind. I watch as she picks up one of the empty buckets and then hauls our full, metal drinking bucket over to the table. It is some small consolation that we never have to worry about a supply of clean drinking water. I fill the metal bucket with fresh snow in the morning and it takes only minutes for the fire to melt it.

"Hold out your hands," she tells me.

Her own hands are trembling slightly as she works. She scoops and then pours cool water over my open palms, washing away the grit and blood into the empty bucket. I can't see her face, just the top of her curly head.

I wince. She pauses to look up at me with wide eyes. "It probably stings."

"No," I lie.

She continues her awkward ministrations over my hands. When the washing is done and my palms are clean, she hands me leftover strips of the now infamous white bed sheet.

"They're clean strips. I boiled them," she explains.

Our small moment of accord does not extend to her actually bandaging my hands. She would never go so far as to voluntarily touch me, I suppose. She simply hands me the clean cloth strips and steps back as I wind them around my hands, which I admit, feel vastly improved.

When I am done, I look at her. The Mudblood stares back. If she is waiting for a thank you, she will be waiting indefinitely.

She is afraid of me again.

I cannot help but wonder how deep this fear of hers goes, seeing as it can be so easily waylaid by her other emotions. Her sense of purposefulness, for example. Or her compassion. I have intimate knowledge of fear. There are many kinds. Her particular brand of fear does not rule her, apparently. I find I do not like this. Succumbing to fear is instinctive and this makes _most_ people very predictable.

"You aren't really going to kill that bird are you?" she finally says to me.

Ah, so _that_ is her tactic. Silly, naïve Mudblood. I do not operate by her debilitating set of morals. A little kindness does not go a long way, certainly not with me.

I stretch my fingers out, testing the tautness of the bandages across my palms. They will certainly make further axe-handling less arduous.

"I am most certainly going to kill it, cook it and then eat it. Provided I can catch the thing."

"How?" she asks, clearly hoping the bird will evade me. "How did you catch the first bird?"

I carry the heavy water bucket back to the fireplace. "Behave yourself and maybe I'll show you."

"I wish you wouldn't treat me like a stupid child," she retorts. "Given our current situation-"

"You are a stupid child."

The girl is wearing the same expression she had when I first called her a Mudblood. "This stupid _child_ and her friends succeeded in getting you captured at the Ministry of Magic, so suck on that hard, bitter fact, Malfoy. You were bested by a bunch of fifteen-year olds."

I turn around to sneer at her. "I was captured by trained Aurors, you insolent little bitch. I would have been there even if you hadn't arrived, courtesy of Harry Potter's voluminous coat tails, I should add. Furthermore, you will watch your tone when you speak to me. I thought I made all of this quite clear when we first arrived?"

"I will speak to you however I wish!" she hisses back. She's gone quite white. The freckles on her nose stand out against her pale skin. "_You_ have no qualms ordering me about in a shout!"

"I do, do I?" I inquire lightly.

The Mudblood opens her mouth to retort and yes, there it is, I can see realization sink in. I have hurt her and threatened her, yes, but I have not once raised my voice to her.

She rallies. "I am sick of your bullying and your high-handed attitude! Don't even get me started on your pureblood supremacist rubbish. I used to think you were just ignorant. Evil, yes, but mainly just painfully ignorant. Lucius Malfoy can't _possibly_ be anything less than incredibly intelligent, surely! I know you did brilliantly at school. Your name's on all these plaques in dusty glass cases! But you've been alive quite a bit longer than I have and in all those years you just didn't make time for the _truth _did you? You didn't _learn_ a single thing from all the pain and misery you've caused and likely experienced. Look where it's got you now! You're unemployed, an outcast, a fugitive and your stupid son is going the same stupid way!"

She was breathless and looked not a little bit stunned at her own outburst.

"Are you quite finished?" I ask, my voice icy.

The girl is a sentence away from having my hands wrapped firmly around her throat. Her audacity astounds me. My own son, not exactly known for his meekness, has never deigned to speak to me in such a way. And let's face it, I let that boy get away with bloody murder.

She balls her fists and makes a visible effort to calm herself. "Yes, I'm finished." With quiet dignity, she adds, "I swear to God, if you hurt me because of what I've just said, I'll find some way to off you in your sleep. Even evil bastards like you need to sleep some time, right?"

Bravo, Miss Granger. She actually looks like she means it, too. If someone was keeping score, they'd have just given her bonus points. Maybe I'm starting to rub off?

"Try it," I hiss. "_Please_."

"You'd like to see me dead, wouldn't you?" she says, her voice wavering. "It really is going against everything you believe in right now to keep me alive. I'm delusional to think we could possibly try and get along for the duration of this God awful situation."

I detest people who think that jabbing a finger into the air helps them make a point. And yet I find myself doing exactly this.

"Getting along could be achieved by the simple fact of _you_ learning your place and keeping our mouth shut unless you have something useful to say, which I assure you, you _haven't_. This ridiculous business about sparing that bird is a perfect example. You are _clueless_ as to what we need to do to survive here and you hate the fact that you find yourself reliant on _me_, outcast fugitive that I am," I snap.

"Learn my place?" she shrieks, her eyes blazing. "You don't _want_ me to help! You're just trying to make yourself feel better by pretending that your stupid pureblooded notions still matter here and now, even after what you've done to save me!" She sucks in a shuddering breath. "Even after abandoning Voldemort! My God, Lucius, do you realize what you've done? What it means?"

I take a step forward. My hands twitch at my sides. I want to erase the memory of my name from her lips. "You will shut your mouth or I will shut it for you."

"What are you going to do, Malfoy?" she scoffs, "throw me out in the snow if I talk back to you? That's really mature. You're worse than your son."

"What an excellent idea," I tell her. "Best one you're had since we've arrived."

In three quick steps, I have picked her up. For a moment, she is paralysed with shock, and then she starts pummelling me.

"Put me down this minute!"

"With pleasure," I say, narrowly avoiding a slap. I kick the front door open and before she can so much as scratch my face or pull at my hair, I toss her out into the snow.

After shutting the door behind me, I count to five, more so to calm my own anger.

I am far too old for this childish nonsense.

"I don't have any shoes on, you miserable bastard!" comes the inevitable scream from outside.

More than happy to oblige, I locate her boots in the loft, open the door and throw them out to her. I watch as she quickly pulls them over her freezing feet and tightens the linen strips that bind them to her legs. This task completed, she looks up at me, so enraged I can practically feel the heat shooting from her eyes.

Hermione Granger is an amusing sight, in her baggy, ill-fitting clothing and furry footwear. Like a Neolithic cavewoman splinched with an angry Weasley.

"You'll let me know when you're in a more agreeable mood, won't you? Until then…"

I shut the door again, jamming it solidly into place. If she manages to jar it loose from the tight doorframe, I will be most impressed. I suspect her pride will not even let her try.

Time passes. The cabin is peaceful. I occupy myself by taking my knife from its holster inside my left boot and begin trimming the narrow twigs I have collected for the purpose of making snow shoes. After some time, I glance out the window and note that the little shrew is no longer in sight. I take the opportunity to ram open the window and capture the trilling bird that had been sitting there. The daft creature doesn't put up much of a struggle once it's in my hands. It gurgles softly as I twist its neck.

If there ever was such a thing as a lovesick bird, I suspect I have just killed it.

After cleaning the carcass, I begin the pleasant task of roasting it over the fire. Soon, the cabin is once again filled with the aroma of cooking meat. This fresh meal is a welcome contrast to the tinned food we previously consumed.

It seems a wondrous thing that I have indeed managed to skip past the 'what have I done' stage, as the Mudblood said. I know very well what I've done. It's the aftermath I need to be concerned about.

My housekeeper is well aware of what to do in the event that I do not return home after a trip. Seven days, I instructed her. She will only send word to Draco in seven days. A lot can happen to the boy in that time. I can only hope that Narcissa has caught wind of this and has hastened to the Manor. No doubt MacNair would have contacted her.

I have enough gold in secure points all over Europe to ensure that Draco and I never need to worry. If required, we could spend the rest of our lives as fugitives. But my son has developed at attachment to his world, his home and his friends. A nomadic existence does not appeal to him.

I have to believe that he is safe, for the time being. To contemplate anything else would render my time here more torturous than it already is. As unlikely as it seems, I am safe in this remote place. Not a soul knows we are here.

Perhaps a profitable outcome may be possible after all.

It all comes down to the perceived worth of a nineteen-year old member of the Order of the Phoenix. Perhaps I have overestimated the Mudblood's value? No doubt they would be happy to have her back, but would they be pleased enough to offer me clemency?

If I have guessed wrong, it will be the last mistake I ever make.

Speaking of which, where the devil is the Mudblood? I take the bird off the spit to cool it, thinking to put my shoes back on and venture outside to see what calamity has befallen her.

When it comes (and it does come), the knocking at the door is not tentative or apologetic. Not with this girl. She pounds on it with her first.

I tear off a drumstick from the cooked bird and am eating when I open the door.

Her nose and cheeks are red from the cold and I see that she's retrieved yet another dented can of peas from the shed. She probably thought to turn my thoughts away from killing her avian friend.

The girl stares down at the drumstick in my hand. The look of betrayal on her face is comical.

"I asked you not-"

I slam the door shut.

It only takes seconds this time. She bangs on the door again.

I yank it open. "Let's try this again, shall we?" I say, with grating cheerfulness. "Miss Granger, would you like to come in?"

She looks like she wants to claw my eyes out. There is a long, drawn out silence filled with the sound of her chattering teeth.

"Yes."

That was barely audible. I pretend it wasn't. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch you."

"Yes!"

"Yes what?"

Her mouth thins. She inhales slowly, probably hoping to ingest patience along with oxygen. "Yes, _please_."

I hold the door open and she enters, immediately going to the fire. She kicks her boots off none too gently and sits in front of the fireplace, with her back to me, hugging her knees to her.

I am very familiar with teenaged sulking..

She stares into the flames. "You know what? I hope they don't pardon you. Not for bringing me back. I hope they throw you in Azkaban to rot."

Ignoring this, I hold out a portion of the bird to her, unable to contain my small smirk. It occurs to me that I actually find this bickering more amusing than infuriating. If anything, it alleviates the boredom of this endless cold and snow. She still has the capacity to drive me to homicide, however.

"Not hungry?"

The Mudblood turns her head to scowl at me. She is still shivering slightly.

"Tell me," I say. "If you think the Ministry might not end up pardoning me, then there really is no reason for me to keep you alive, is there?"

"There are lots of reasons, not that I expect any of them to occur to you," she mutters.

"What kind of reasons?" I goad, "out of the kindness of my heart, I suppose?"

The girl snorts. "Could be, if you had a heart." She inclines her head to the remains of the bird. "So how did you catch it, then? It kept flying away every time I got near it."

I toss my drumstick bone into the fire and lean back into the armchair, feeling genuinely relaxed for the first time since we arrived at the cabin. "Stand and I'll show you."

I did say I would show her if she behaved. And I would certainly classify this new subdued (if surly) Hermione Granger as 'behaving'. She gives me an odd look, no doubt suspicious at my compliance. Nevertheless, she rises to her feet and waits, a little apprehensively.

I focus my mind on the spell as I look at her.

When they talk about foras auxillium, _accio_ is regarded as the easiest spell to perform wandlessly. When you practice, it is the spell you start with. It is the most basic, after all.

A basic idea, _wanting_.

It must be because I am fortified from the warmth, food, water and shelter. Or because I haven't performed any magic whatsoever in more than two days. Catching the bird had required only a little concentration. This occasion, the spell occurs much more strongly than I expected.

The girl jerks forward, as if pushed from behind, and then with a small squeal she flies to me, falling forward into my chair. I catch her about her waist. For a matter of seconds, her chest is pressed against my face. The contact is negligible, under her numerous layers of clothing, though it is still enough to set her face aflame.

She braces her hands against my shoulders to regain her balance and then hurriedly clambers off my lap. "How…how did you do that?" she stammers.

"Through the never-ending mystery and marvel that is my pure, magical blood," I drawl.

I see the resentment in those brown eyes and yes, I think I see envy as well.

So she _is_ human after all.

"You're saying only Purebloods can do wandless magic?" she asks me. "I'm not talking about accidental, wandless magic. We've all experienced that. I mean doing it on purpose, controlling it. I haven't come across anything written on the subject."

"There have been a few documented cases of mixed-blood individuals performing foras auxillium." I pause. "But never Mudbloods."

"I don't believe that," she whispers. "Maybe no _Muggleborn_ has tried."

Her emphasis on the more appropriate term of address for persons like her is not loss on me. "I don't care what you believe, and what a bold-faced liar you are to say that _no one_ has tried. Anyone who has ever used a wand would have tried to perform magic without it at some point. It is natural human curiosity." I give her a slow, condescending smile. "Tell me you haven't tried. Maybe I'll believe you."

She doesn't reply.

I sigh for effect. "Poor little Mudblood. For all your much lauded intelligence, how disappointed you must have been when your attempts never _worked_."

The girl looks like she might retort, but decides against it. Instead, she picks up her can of peas from where she left it beside the fireplace. She takes my axe, and then (with me watching on with some alarm), hacks the can into two.

The axe splits slightly into the wooden floor board when it strikes, but she manages to haul it out without too much effort or damage to the floor. Pulpy, wet peas spill out. The girl quickly scoops this up into a metal dish from the kitchen. I watch, then, as she heats this meagre meal over some of the red, glowing logs. She pulls the heated dish away using a scrap of cloth and then settles down with a fork to eat it.

I assumed wrongly that she was content for our animosity to continue in silence.

"Not being able to do wandless magic is a small price to pay for being me," she announces, blowing over her hot peas.

"Miss Granger," I reply, putting as much acid into my voice as I can, "why on earth would anyone actually _want_ to be you?"

The barb doesn't hit. This is because she has the power of her convictions.

I was once like this.

She thinks for a moment, while chewing her food. "Because people like me are the future of magic. That's why Voldemort is on this pointless pureblood crusade. It's reactionary. People like him are part of history. It's like what you said to Bellatrix at the Revel. It's a matter of numbers and eventuality, isn't it? Mixed-bloods and Muggleborns outnumber your kind. You were on the losing side from the moment you took the Mark." She looks up at me, and for a moment stares as if she has never seen my face before. "And I'm pretty sure you've known this for a long time."

Voldemort could kill her and others like her, but the truth would not die with them. It exits regardless.

I find I cannot summon even the most basic slur or insult against her. My mood turns dark. Wisely, she gauges the change in my demeanour and says no more.

The Mudblood knows she's right.


	7. Chapter 7

-7-

Elizabeth Granger was sitting in the reception room outside Rufus Scrimgeour's office. The lady was not pleased.

The Order meeting at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place had broken up an hour earlier and somehow Remus had drawn the short straw of speaking to Hermione's understandably distraught mother.

Mrs. Granger had turned up unexpectedly at the Ministry on a Sunday. Scrimgeour was not in situ, nor would he have likely seen Mrs. Granger even if he had been. A note was dispatched to Moody, who was heading the Auror investigation into Hermione's disappearance.

It had been unanimous to keep Ron and Harry well out of the picture for the time being, though both had insisted on personally informing Mrs. Granger of what was currently being done to locate Hermione. After the Order meeting had concluded, Moody had scarcely glanced at Harry's pale face or Ron's red-rimmed eyes before settling on Remus.

Arguably, Remus had the best people-skills of the lot of them, which was a bit ironic considering what a hard time he got for simply not being regular 'people'.

Remus thought it was the least he could do. Scrimgeour was hardly ever at the Ministry, being of the opinion that the best sort of Ministering was done out in the open and not behind piles of bureaucracy. He didn't take meetings very often and tended to treat appointments like horrible drains on his valuable time and attention.

This wasn't necessarily a bad thing, save for the fact that the paperwork building up steadily behind Scrimgeour's office door was threatening to topple over the two, beleaguered secretaries who answered and sorted through the correspondence.

"Dr. Granger?" Remus popped his greying head into the reception area and quickly spotted Hermione's mum.

Elizabeth Granger stood. She was a slim, attractive woman in her early fifties, dressed in a smart, grey wool pant suit. Her hair was just as curly as Hermione's though she wore it short. She looked thoroughly composed, except that her hands were wringing at the soft leather of her purse.

"Are you Minister Scrimgeour?"

"No, I'm not, fortunately. My name is Remus Lupin. I'm here to brief you on what's being done to locate Hermione."

The woman blinked for a moment. Her eyes were a cornflower blue. Remus guessed that Hermione's brown eyes were inherited from her father.

"Lupin," she repeated. Elizabeth Granger nodded, seeming to know exactly who he was. "You're the Lycanthrope working with the Order. Hermione mentioned you. It's nice to meet you, despite the circumstances." She stuck her hand out to him.

It took Remus a moment to respond by taking her hand to shake. It was out of habit that he never offered to shake anyone's hand when he was first introduced to them. Mostly, people who knew what he was tried not to touch him if they could prevent it.

Clearly, Mrs. Granger was cut from the same cloth as her daughter. Her grip was brief but firm.

"Now, maybe you can tell me where on earth my daughter is? And you will pardon my bluntness, but I'm going to start taking heads off if another person tells me that Hermione is merely on some sort of extended bender following a lovers' quarrel and will no doubt surface when she's recovered from her hangover."

Remus frowned. That was the most ridiculous thing he'd heard! "Who told you _that_?"

"The lady who escorted me to this room. A Dolores Umbridge."

"Umbridge is an idiot," Remus snapped. "Who should not have been allowed back into the Ministry, let alone be given any position of real responsibility." He realized her was scowling at Mrs. Granger and immediately softened his expression. "Hermione is not on a bender."

Elizabeth Granger smiled thinly. "No, she's not." She had perfect teeth. That probably went without saying. "Because this is _Hermione_ we're talking about."

"Yes. Dr. Granger-"

"Just Elizabeth, please. I am only Dr. Granger at my clinic."

"Elizabeth," Remus began again, "I have to be honest with you. Right now we have no idea where Hermione is or why she was taken. But we do believe she _has_ been kidnapped. What makes this baffling is that we have received no note, either for ransom or for any other purpose."

"Her flat was untouched, I am informed," Elizabeth said. Her voice had gone a little hoarse and Remus saw her eyes take on a brighter sheen.

"Yes. Aurors have undertaken a detailed search of her flat and the surroundings. They found her apartment keys beside a dumpster, and also this." he took Hermione's phone from inside his robes. "The last call she made was for a Muggle ambulance, but she didn't get through in time to speak to the operator."

Elizabeth swallowed convulsively. "Dear God. I insisted she keep that with her at all times in case I ever needed to contact her." She cast a fretful gaze back to Remus. "It's Voldemort, isn't it? He's taken my daughter?"

There was no point softening the likely truth. "We suspect so."

"What are you doing about it?"

"At this stage the DMLE, that's the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, is not entirely convinced that she's been abducted. The Auror Unit operates separately from the Order, though our work overlaps. It will take a few more days to get the ball well and truly rolling."

"Aurors are your police?"

"Yes, essentially, they are. They keep the peace. The _Order_, meanwhile, has commenced its investigation, with the grudging assent of the DMLE. You have to understand that until recently, the DMLE did not know that the Order even existed, though we do have members who are also Aurors. In any case, we have begun by sending feelers out into the wider community to pick up any useful currents."

"In short, you have absolutely no leads," Elizabeth Granger surmised, grimly. "My daughter has been missing for more than three days now and I am stupefied that you know nothing! Don't you have…" she searched for the appropriate term, "informants? Spies? Moles? How could a young girl as well known as Hermione is in this community, vanish into thin air and no one knows a thing?"

"Believe me," Remus began, "I understand your frustration-"

"Do you have children, Mr. Lupin?" Elizabeth asked, her voice steely.

Remus hadn't expected that question. He was taken aback for a moment. "No, I don't."

Mrs. Granger sucked in a fortifying breath before she next spoke. "When Hermione received her Hogwarts' letter, we of course assumed it was some kind of joke." She looked around, at the Minister's reception room with its eccentric, mismatched decor and moving pictures on the walls and the steady influx of fluttering messages that landed on the secretaries' desks behind her.

"All this…to think that an entire _world_ has been present alongside us all this while, and we didn't have a clue. My husband and I went along with the wonder of it, you know, _magic_," she said, "and my daughter can be very tight-lipped about what goes on here. I didn't even _know _about Voldemort until her third year at Hogwarts and the only reason she told us then was because she was worried that we would become likely targets. Imagine my horror, Mr. Lupin, to learn that my only child has regularly been dodging lethal curses since she was eleven years old. Now, I've been extremely patient with Hermione and with the choices she's made, but not anymore. If you do not produce some sort of helpful information within the next few days, I _will_ go to the highest Muggle authorities available to me and to hell with your wizarding secrets."

The impassioned speech was ruined a little by Mrs. Granger's loud sniffle at the end of it. Remus understood the threat for what it was. He was dealing with a terrified parent. Sadly, this would not be the first or the last time.

"Elizabeth, if we honestly uncover nothing before the end of next week. I will personally escort you to Scotland Yard," Remus stated plainly. Whether they believed her wild claims was another matter however. It wouldn't have been the first time a Muggle had tried.

That seemed to take the edge off her angry frustration. Now, she just looked distraught again. He gave her a contact address to write to, should she require near- instant updates and instructed her to come to the Ministry if she caught wind of anything potentially useful. At the end of these instructions, she bid him a parting thank you and left the reception room.

The younger of Scrimgeour's two assistants peeked out from behind the small mountain of papers stacked on her desk.

"Wow," she said to Lupin. "She's…something."

"She's Hermione Granger's mother," was Remus's dejected response. That was probably the quickest explanation.

Outside, in the corridor, Elizabeth was halfway to the lifts before Ron caught up with her. He'd been waiting.

"Mrs. Granger!"

"Ronald!" Elizabeth Granger dashed a tear from her cheek and stepped forward to hug him. "I'm so sorry. I hope you didn't hear all that…"

"Please, it's alright! Really…" Ron looked utterly miserable. He stared down at the ground for a moment before seeming to pull himself together. "Look, I thought I should tell you… Hermione and I," he sighed and then looked Elizabeth Granger straight in the eye. "I asked her to marry me in September and she said yes," he blurted.

Mrs. Granger's hand went to her mouth in a gesture that was so reminiscent of her daughter that Ron had to visibly swallow his anguish. "Oh, you dear boy!" she gave him another hug. "She didn't tell me!"

Ron thus found himself hanging over Hermione's mum's shoulder. "My family doesn't know yet either," he said, his voice slightly muffled. "We were waiting for the right time to break the news to everyone."

Mrs. Granger pulled away. A thought occurred to her. "Could this have anything to do with why she's been kidnapped?" she asked.

Ron shook his head. "I don't see how. Nobody knew besides the two of us."

Mrs. Granger took a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her face. She was about to put it away when she offered one to a sheepish Ron.

"We'll get her back," Elizabeth Granger assured, sniffing once. "Hermione is tougher than she looks. Hogwarts had proved it, if nothing else."

**

If they ever made it out of the Balkans alive, Hermione thought they could probably write a book about the whole experience; _'Survival in a Snowbound Wilderness: A Tale of Unlikely Heroism and Anger Management'_, by L. Malfoy and H. J. Granger.

She imagined Malfoy at the book singing at Flourish and Blotts, sneering over the plebs that deigned to approach him to autograph the book. He'd scowl at her co-authorship. She pictured him crossing her name out on every copy he could get his hands on. Then, he'd have a stern word with the bookshop manager about placing his book next to anything by Gilderoy Lockhart, seeing as Lockhart had only ever written fiction.

Hermione snorted. She knew she was smirking to herself and quickly regained some composure. This was no laughing matter.

It must have been the hunger. It was getting to her. She was so, _so_ hungry, having finally turned her nose up at yet another can of peas. They _had_ food, however basic and horrid, but she could not bring herself to eat it. Truth be told, she wasn't feeling very well, but given their circumstances, it was lucky enough that she hadn't come down with a bad cold or worse, a lung infection from her bout with hypothermia on the night they arrived at the cabin.

Currently, Hermione was trudging behind Malfoy through the snow.

They were looking for trees to climb. Now, if this didn't sound like a terribly odd thing to be doing with Lucius Malfoy, then Hermione did not have a sound understanding of 'odd'.

She felt the lactic acid building up in her muscles and the inevitable slowing-down of everything _physical_. Even her breathing was sluggish. She'd certainly had enough sleep the night before, but she reckoned that she could still lay down on top of the snow, under the pleasant midday sunshine, close her eyes and…

Be dead in an hour.

He'd already snapped at her twice for slowing him down. Not everyone was so fortunate as to have home-made snowshoes. She scowled at his broad, cloak-covered back and then swore at him, mentally of course.

Malfoy was moving much more efficiently. This was because he was moving _across _the snow, rather than through it, as she was doing. He'd made himself a pair of snowshoes the day before, using even-length twigs he'd smoothed over with a knife and then tied together with strands of twisted bed sheet. The end result looked a lot like giant bird's feet. The snowshoes may have looked crude, but they distributed his weight across the deep snow and that was all he required. He didn't have to endure the step-sink-step-sink torture. Hermione decided she'd have a go at making a pair for herself too.

Provided he would lend her his knife. She'd asked already, but he'd said no.

And that was about all he'd said to her in the two days since their touchy conversation after he'd killed and roasted the second bird.

Malfoy kept busy doing whatever he did during the daylight hours. It wasn't like he gave her a rundown of his activities, so she was left to simply _assume_. Hermione therefore assumed that he was undertaking a survey of the area. She also assumed that he did not like what he found, because he never failed to be in a foul mood when he returned to the cabin.

Or then again, that could have just been her effect on him.

After several attempts at drawing him into basic conversation, she'd simply given up trying.

It got terribly uncomfortable when they were both in the cabin together after the sun went down, which it did rather early in the day. He said nothing, and either ate or sat before the fire, or worked on his projects.

There was hardly anything left of the bed sheet from the Revel. Any cloth they had in their possession was valuable and she noted that he sought to make the best use of scraps before resorting to cutting up the sheets or blankets they had left. There were quite a few items of children's clothing in the suitcase from the loft, but the pieces were small and of limited use.

Still, he was able to utilize a pair of tiny, denim overalls to handle the cooking pot and roasting rod over the fire. Hermione had also taken a small cardigan to tie her hair back. It honestly did feel like a desecration, but better to put these items to use, rather than let them just sit there in the suitcase and remain part of some sad history.

Malfoy made long, thin strips from the leftover sheet scraps and then braided them so that their tensile strength was increased dramatically. By the end of their fourth evening there, he had a series of skinny, braided cords which he then tied together to form a pair of small nets.

Hermione had stared at the nets and predicted the imminent demise of more, small animals.

Curious, she asked what he planned to do with the nets. He'd been in the middle of testing how much weight they could handle, when he responded with a clipped, "whatever the hell I want."

In his glorious absence, during the daytime, Hermione did the only thing she could do in their situation - she tried to make the best of it. It was not in her nature to sit and mope.

Their sleeping arrangements left a lot to be desired. The fire was their lifeline, and so they slept in front of it, next to the dangerously teetering pile of firewood. Hermione organised the pile according to size and congratulated herself on her fortitude in not cringing when she spotted several mummified-looking dead mice at the bottom of the stack. They honestly looked old enough to be carbon-dated.

She picked up the desiccated remains up with two sticks, using the sticks like chopsticks and tossed them out of the cabin.

Malfoy's habit had been to sleep nearest to the door, on the dusty rug with only one of the three, thick blankets from the small, single bed in the loft. Hermione didn't think this was nearly enough to ward off the cold, particularly since he wasn't yet using any of the clothing they had found in the suitcase. Not that she was likely to mention this to him. If he wanted to be cold and eventually smelly, that was entirely his prerogative.

She was happy for him to have the mattress, but since he didn't seem interested, she didn't use it either. From the look of the short bed, a third of his legs would probably hang over the edge.

Hermione was also curious about another aspect of their stay there, but she would have rather chewed on nails rather than ask Malfoy what he was doing about their…toilet situation.

Basically there was no 'situation'.

You just found a spot in the trees and tried not to think of luxuries like heated toilet seats and three-ply toilet paper, lest you start to _weep_ from self pity.

Snow, especially fresh, powdery snow, had its uses. Necessity really was the mother of invention. In the absence of toilet paper, Hermione_ made do_ with fresh snow. And if she was unlucky enough to develop frostbite of the arse, she'd quite happily die from the effects, rather than tell Malfoy.

Since his dig about contamination of their mutual water bucket on their first morning there, Hermione had decided to claim one of the three buckets for herself. Using the axe blade, she tore a flannel shirt from the suitcase into two pieces. She used her bit off flannel as a teeth and face washer, and draped Malfoy's over his water bucket to do 'whatever the hell he wanted' to do with it.

Hermione longed to heat some of the water up and wipe herself down with her cloth, but the idea of Malfoy making a possibly unexpected return to the cabin put her off the idea. She'd have to broach the topic with him soon, however. No doubt he'd not be averse to the idea of a good scrubbing.

The cabin was dusty, so she gathered some thin twigs and tied them together to make a broom. Then she shoved open the cabin door and spent the morning sweeping out dust and soot. It was now possible to walk barefoot across the floorboards without the soles of her feet turning black. When this was completed, she turned her attention to the bedding, giving all of it a thorough shake outside, before airing it out over the table and chairs for an afternoon.

It was only noon by the time all these tasks were completed.

Hermione had then sat in the armchair by the fire and stared into it. There were tinned sardines re-heated on the stove, floating in aspic. After she had defrosted them earlier in the morning, they became sardine _mush_ rather than actual fish _pieces_. Malfoy had eaten half of it for his breakfast at sunrise and Hermione had taken two bites before realizing that her appetite was well and truly missing in action.

What else could you do with nothing else to do? She allowed herself to be acutely homesick.

Her parents would be beside themselves with worry. Her father, Phillip, tended to call around once a week, usually on a Sunday night.

That was going to be _tonight,_ Hermione realized, with a grimace. Her mother, Liz, would assume that Hermione had simply forgotten to charge her mobile battery. They'd try again on Monday morning, and probably again after that. She wondered where her phone was and if it would actually ring itself out. To even think about the possible whereabouts of her wand made her eyes sting. She'd only ever had the one wand and was very attached to it.

Harry and Ron might have been able to stall the Grangers for a few more days if Hermione hadn't already missed a dinner date with them on that fateful Wednesday. They were not stupid and lately, they were becoming less willing to subscribe to Hermione's _'the less you know, the less you'll worry'_ motto. There had been enough of that during her Hogwarts' years. With Hermione living on her own and working with the Ministry, her parents made a point of keeping themselves informed of her activities.

Hermione loathed thinking about what Harry might be going through, though she thought she had a fair idea. He'd be positively wracked with guilt and tossing about every foolhardy notion of how to go about searching for her. He'd try and be stoic for Ron, however.

_Ron_.

She missed him. She missed his voice, his smile, the warm way he looked at her. She missed holding his hand. She missed the smell of the horrid aftershave Ginny had given him last Yule. She missed the Floos she got from him after work to complain about his day. She missed how passionate he was when she accompanied him to Quidditch matches. She even missed the glazed expression he sported when she told him about her work. She missed his hugs. He gave great hugs. It was inevitable, coming from such a big, wonderful family.

She missed the Weasleys. Not a week went by without Molly inviting her over for a noisy family dinner where you had to shout to be heard over everyone else. Hermione would sometimes catch the comparatively docile Arthur giving her a good-natured wink from the head of the table, as if to say, 'this is what you're in for'.

And she had been. _In for it_, that was.

The proposal had come out of the blue.

"Let's get married."

Ron had probably been just as surprised as Hermione was when he'd blurted out the words. She might have preferred a more memorable location than a Quidditch match, however. It hadn't been sentimental or well-planned, by any stretch of the imagination (which she often accused Ron of not having), but it was a quintessentially _Ronald Weasley_ sort of proposal. Which was romantic, in its own way.

There were obviously two possible answers to this question and because she was Hermione Granger, she managed to run through the next fifty or sixty years of her life, as it related to either a 'yes' or a 'no' response.

She loved Ron. She'd loved him since his valiant effort in the game of life-sized Wizard's Chess during the Philosopher's Stone fiasco in their first year. It wouldn't take her much time at all to tell you why she loved him. He was dependable, loyal, trustworthy, honest, kind-hearted and understood commitment better than anyone else, except perhaps Harry.

The Weasleys were the blueprint for how families_ ought _to be. She'd gravitated towards that warm, soft, glowing beacon of family life. Not to say that her upbringing as an only child had been a lonely affair devoid of affection. Far from it. Her parents had indulged her, but somehow, she'd always felt that she'd been cut out to be a sibling, to be part of something larger and more… argumentative?

'Yes' meant being absorbed into the Weasley fold. That sense of otherness, of being a Muggleborn and being sometimes too clever for her own good would go away. She would not just be a friend, she would be one of _them_. She wouldn't be offered the best bits of a roast at dinner, she'd have to fight with the rest of the family for it. The Weasley boys wouldn't have to watch their language, which Ginny and even Harry assured never happened when Hermione was absent at the table.

Also, battling evil would be a less complicated affair when you were really _part_ of the family, and it wasn't just a metaphor.

It'd been easy to quash the 'no' voices or the 'no, not right now' voices.

Now _this _was the part of her that had started S.P.E.W, even though she knew she was in for ridicule and opposition. It was the part of her that recognized the safe spots to stand in at Hogwarts and then had _still_ gone to stand next to Harry 'Come and Get me' Potter instead. It was the part of her that used the Time Turner to rescue Sirius with Harry. The 'no' voice insisted that the war was coming to an inevitable end and maybe, just _maybe_, she might want to do things with her life other than live a plump, contented existence with Ron and their children.

Everything was put on hold because of Voldemort. You daydreamed at your own peril. Her career ambitions and her ideas about continuing her education in Magic were all indulgences while the war continued.

She never confided in Ron about any of this. It wouldn't have done either of them any good because Ron would have assumed it was her way of saying she didn't think he was good enough. Nobody liked hearing that they were picked because they were an _option_. You wanted to be told that you were picked because you were someone else's idea of _It_. You wanted to know that someone else had been looking all their life for you and miracles upon miracles, had found you.

She knew she was Ron's It. Just like Harry was Ginny's and vice versa. Now _there _was chemistry you could start a fire with. Ginny and Harry's love involved chemistry that was made of deep, dark truths and looks that were more meaningful than a year's worth of conversation. Sometimes, just being in the same _district_ as them felt like you were intruding.

Meanwhile, it wasn't unheard of for Hermione to be eyeballing Ron for a good twenty-minutes during a function or across a dinner table, unsuccessfully trying to put a single thought into his head - _I'm awfully tired and I'd really like to go home now._

Ok, so he wasn't the most astute of men. It seemed a small price to pay for everything else that he was _to_ and _for_ her.

All this mental gymnastics had taken mere moments, because Ron had been staring at her, awaiting her answer. And everyone knows that in a post-proposal situation, every normal second is multiplied by ten and then squared by the expression on the face of the person that is supposed to say _yes_.

She'd grinned at him. That was also easy to do with Ron.

"Yeah, why not!"

In hindsight, perhaps her response left a lot to be desired, but Ron had been ecstatic nonetheless. He'd kissed her long and hard just as fireworks went off, marking the end of the Quidditch match and the Canon's win.

Lovely bit of timing, that.

For the life of her, Hermione still could not work out how Lucius Malfoy could have possibly found out about something that only she and Ron knew. MacNair had clearly not been aware of her engagement. She rather suspected Voldemort had been equally clueless.

Unless Ron told someone else? That was unlikely. The engagement was highly private, especially for him.

Hermione racked her brain.

There was the one time she'd sent Ron a cheeky inter-office memo, signing it off as 'wife-to-be'. Goodness, that had to be it! Malfoy must have someone in the Ministry mail room! Dear God. If that was true then what else did Voldemort know about? Sensitive, DMLE information didn't travel via the mail room, of course, but plenty of other things did.

Or was it that Malfoy maintained a secure line of information that only flowed to _him_ and not to Voldemort?

From what she had thus far gathered about Malfoy, she thought this was quite likely. Maybe Lucius did have a few tricks up his sleeve that his former master was not aware of.

_Like me_, she reminded herself.

Shortly after midday, before the tree-hunting expedition, Lucius had returned to the cabin after a morning spent scouting around their mountaintop. He took a quick drink of water, warmed himself in front of the fire for a bit and then stood to leave once more.

_Bugger this,_ Hermione thought. If she got left behind one more time, she thought she might go crazy from the boredom and her own morose thoughts. Plus, there wasn't anything left to clean apart from the ancient-looking muskets mounted on the wall above the fireplace.

She shot to her feet. "May I go with you?" she asked, hating that she felt she had to ask. It was, however, pointless to give him any more excuses to lash out at her.

Malfoy was kneeling at the door, strapping on his snowshoes. His long hair was unbound that day. It fell forward to conceal his face, so she couldn't make out his expression when he said, in that crisply-enunciated way of his. "You will not be able to keep up."

Sod him. She was a healthy, young woman of nineteen. _He_ happened to be middle-aged. Perhaps he needed reminding of this very real fact?

He stood then, more smoothly and gracefully than she had done simply coming out of the armchair. If he was supposed to be ache-ridden and unfit in this cold place, his body had apparently not got the memo. Or he was hiding it very well. He parted his cloak and retrieved his gloves where he had tucked them into the waistband of his woollen trousers, pulling the gloves on deftly.

Hermione acknowledged, albeit reluctantly, that Malfoy was probably fitter than a lot of the young adults she worked with at the Ministry. She wasn't sure how old he was, exactly, but he couldn't have been that much older than Snape or Lupin, surely?

"If I fall behind, I'll make my way back here," she said, bracingly. She knew she sounded eager. "What were you planning on going out for?"

At first she thought he wasn't going to answer her, but then he replied. "I am attempting, however unsuccessfully, to form a coherent mental map of the area so that I can venture out further without the threat of getting lost after a snowfall. Each time there's a blizzard, everything changes." He sounded frustrated.

Hermione thought for a moment. The solution came to her. "The baby clothes," she said. "Most of it is brightly-coloured. We could tie bits to the trees at regular intervals. For example, we could use 'red' within a certain boundary line around the cabin, and other colours as we venture outwards. That would help identify distance and landmarks, wouldn't it?"

Of course it would help. It was a brilliant idea in a landscape that could change from day to day.

He stared at the open suitcase on the kitchen table. "Fine, bring along the clothing. If you fall behind, don't expect me to wait for you."

It was all Hermione could do not to pump her fist in the air. She pulled on another jumper and stuffed wads of scrap material into her animal-hide boots to keep her socked calves extra warm. Then, she grabbed a stack of baby clothes, bundled them up in a blanket to make a sling that carried the lot.

"I'm ready," she announced, a little breathlessly. Her enthusiasm died a bit when she realized she was openly showing her delight in spending the afternoon with him.

Well, not _him_, per se.

Malfoy, in turn, was giving her his usual condescending look, but there was a sense of familiarity in that look now. A sort of _let's get on with it_ vibe. It was a welcome change to him just being threatening or unpleasant for the sake of it.

Honest to God, Hermione thought they might actually be starting to become accustomed to each other.

**

So they were looking for the first tree.

It was easy to forget just how spectacular the wilderness could look after a big dumping of snow. She supposed that her view of the location had been affected by the fact that they were essentially trapped there.

It was so still and so quiet that the noise of her own breathing made her self-conscious. There was the stunning and absolute absence of sound and movement, as if the forest was holding its breath. It didn't feel _dead_, though. There was life and vitality there, just under the surface, literally. Life was sleeping at the moment.

"It's really quite pretty here, isn't it?" Hermione realized she was whispering and immediately felt a little foolish.

Malfoy was staring down the slope. "You will forgive me for not sharing that sentiment. I've been trying to walk through this 'prettiness' for four days without managing to get very much done."

"You don't like the cold, do you?" Hermione could tell that about him now. It wasn't just his dislike of their situation. Despite his colouring and his glacial eyes and his apparent fondness for some very expensive-looking winter attire, he was not a creature that favoured the cold.

They had started down the slope, though he paused halfway to tighten the bindings on his show shoes. His response was delivered dispassionately. "I've spent a lot of time in the cold. I don't care for it."

"Was it cold in Azkaban?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her, and then it seemed he stared _through_ her, as if memory unfocussed his vision. "Deathly," he said, after a moment. And then the focus came back. "You would be happy to know that, I suspect," he added, coolly.

Hermione took offence to that assumption. "Why would I revel in anyone's suffering? Yours included?"

"If you have to ask me that question, you're more self-delusional than I thought."

"Most of the world doesn't have hate and mistrust as their default setting, you know? And for those of us who fall into that trap, it usually just stems from fear." She realized he may not have _got_ that particular Mugglish analogy, but he looked like he understood her. "And speaking of self-delusional, arguably you were in the employ of the most delusional man in all of Wizarding Britain."

Malfoy snorted. "Voldemort is very _afraid_. On that, we agree."

Hermione was astounded that he so readily admitted this. Her inefficient descent down the slope came to a pause. She paused to catch her breath beside him. "And what do you think he's afraid of?"

"He's afraid of _you_." Malfoy shot her a derisive look. "Just a slip of a girl…"

"You mean he's afraid of what I represent," she corrected. "His blood purity ideas are just a big pile of gobshite!"

Malfoy blinked. "Four days with you and I fear I am being inadvertently schooled in crass, Muggle insults."

She gave him an acid-sweet smile. "I aim to please."

"Do you?" he murmured, so softly that she almost missed it. And then the cool look was back and he was once again moving ahead of her at startling speed.

She resumed her trudging, not wanting to fall behind because that would mean ending the conversation, which frankly fascinated her. The inner workings of a Death Eater of his standing (_former_ Death Eater, she mentally corrected) was intriguing.

"Voldemort isn't just afraid, though, is her? Like I said, he's self-delusional. Surely you_, _of all people, see this?" Hermione said to him.

Malfoy kept his eyes on the snow, straight ahead. "His self-delusion only pertains to his unrealistic expectations of victory, despite the odds. He will do anything in his power and quite a few things outside of it, to make sure that people like you don't survive to inherit what should be a Pureblood legacy."

A little chill went through her. She caught him by his sleeve, in her vehemence, not caring about the repercussions. "You really believe in Pureblood supremacy?"

He paused in his stride to stare down at her hand at his elbow. There was no visible distaste in his expression. There was nothing at all. Hermione found she would have preferred hostility. Given her obviously passionate views on a topic that _defined_ the war against Voldemort, the realization that she could not currently move Malfoy, even to anger, did not sit well with her.

"Yes, Granger, I believe in it. I know it's a hard concept for you to grasp, but try not to confuse my departure from Voldemort's service with my defection from his views. I can spot a losing battle. There is nothing any of us can do to stem what is happening. We must simply endure it. If I am fated to become a part of history, then so be it."

"You actually think you're better than me because of the blood that flows through your veins?" She didn't think the question could be posed any clearer than this.

Malfoy moved his arm from her and her slack hand fell to her side. "I do not think it, I _know _it. But unlike Voldemort, I see no merit in continuing on a suicidal quest to rid the world of people like you." He thought for a moment. "What is that Biblical saying? The meek shall inherit the earth? Majority rules, Miss Granger. And to my everlasting lament, _you are the meek_."

She guessed her expression said it all. It wasn't that she had been expecting this new Lucius Malfoy to throw his lot in with the Order, buy some Muggle real-estate and marry a Muggleborn. It was just that if someone like _him_ had found the guts to defy Voldemort, then perhaps Voldemort's programming wasn't as thorough as all that.

"I disappoint you?" Malfoy concluded, his voice dipping to a drawl. "You were hoping that in rescuing you, I would see the error of my evil ways, perhaps? Did you think that making your remarkable acquaintance would be enough to change my views? Do you really think so highly of your ability to affect others the way you want?"

He looked amused. Not contrite, not unsure, not serious and sober from what he said. He was just run of the mill amused. It seemed he couldn't resist stepping forward and then grabbing her chin so that she faced him. It wasn't a hard hold, but nor was in gentle. Hermione flinched and tried to take a step backwards, but this was difficult considering her legs were in the snow, up to her shins. She could, however, turn her eyes away from him as he moved closer, so close that his nose brushed against her forehead.

"Or is it just your effect on _m_e that you were hoping would be more...pronounced?"

It occurred to her, rather belatedly, that she had forgotten how intimidating Malfoy could be when he wanted to be. Just because he seemed content to ignore her, most of the time, didn't change the fact that he could scare the colour right out of her with only words.

"Little Mudblood," he said, a mockery of an endearment. At that hated slur, her brown eyes jerked up to meet his grey ones. She caught his line of sight just before he looked her in the eye. She was sure he'd been staring at her mouth. "Don't go pinning your pointless hopes on me. You may aim to please, as you so sweetly said. But I'll guarantee I'll continue to disappoint." A slight smile played upon his lips.

He released her and because he'd practically been holding her up by her chin, she flopped over backwards in the snow, feeling as ungainly as a seal on land.

_Oh, the bastard! He made it sound like…like._

Like what, exactly? Hermione pulled her feet out and mutinously sat cross-legged on the ground for a moment, tired of battling the endless suction of the snow.

Well, he'd been very clever about saying what he _hadn't _actually said. But she was astute enough to understand the insinuation. As if she would ever consider associating herself with the likes of him! It was just so ridiculous that it didn't merit the thought, let alone his insinuation.

No doubt Lucius Malfoy had led the amoral pack of female Death Eaters back home a merry chase indeed, but _she_ was not that grateful for his rescue that she'd offer herself up to him as some sort of consolation prize because of his changing allegiance.

The fact was that she was alone with a man who loathed her, in a desolate place with no one around for miles. If he'd wanted to take advantage of the situation, he could have done so. Plenty of times. He could have done so at the Revel even, for hadn't that been why she'd been given to him in the first place?

He and his horrid former colleagues seemed willing enough to indulge in the rape of Muggles and Muggleborns, but she suspected the idea of purposely consorting with one was repellent to him, especially since he'd confirmed that he was still in line with Voldemort's pureblood agenda.

Oh, and he was _old_! How could she forget that? He was younger than her parents, but still, he had more than twenty years on her. And he was Draco's dad. _Let us not forget that fact._

"We might as well stop here," Malfoy announced, businesslike.

The slope leading down from the cabin had been devoid of any trees, but now they were approaching deeper forest. The tree line of the forest loomed in front of them.

He glanced at her sling full of baby clothes, which was on the snow beside her. There was a red and brown tweed coat, peeking out. He pulled it from the sling and then took his knife from his boot to cut the tiny coat up into strips.

Hermione didn't realize she was grimacing until he commented. "It's not alive, Granger," he drawled. "You can stop looking so guilty. At least you know its demise is for a good cause."

"Like that bird's was?" she concluded, dryly.

She knew she was being an utter twit about him eating the poor, sweet (if slightly dim) pigeon, but she couldn't help it. It was his general callous attitude that she took exception too.

"Anything that sustains me is considered a good cause," he said curtly, handing her a strip of tweed. "Now try and be useful and find a suitable tree to climb."

"Me?" Hermione repeated. She had to squint at him because it really was very bright. He was easy enough to spot, because tall, black and ominous tended to stand out a bit, in the snow.

"Yes, you. Unless you can't?" He raised an eyebrow.

He didn't say 'won't. He said 'can't'', implying that her refusal to climb a tree stemmed from her unfortunate inability to do so.

"Fine. I'll do it," she replied, her voice tart.

Malfoy walked ahead, coming to a stop in front of a tall fir that marked what looked to be the end of the slope. Directly up the slope, in an almost straight line, was the cabin. From where they were, Hermione could make out the curling grey smoke from the chimney. It seemed a good choice for a first marker.

She joined him at the base of the tree. The fir was tall. Its trunk was straight and narrow with no lower branches to pull herself up with.

Hermione took the strip of cloth from him and tucked it into the neck of her jumper. "You're going to have to give me a boost."

He'd already worked this out, apparently. He made a foothold for her with his hands, looking none too thrilled at coming into close contact with her stinking boots. Hermione could sympathise. After four days, she still wasn't used to the smell either. Because she was already shin-deep in the snow, she would need additional leverage to haul herself upwards.

God, did it really have to be _this_ awkward? Maybe it was just her? Really, she couldn't be blamed for finding it difficult trying to work with Lucius Malfoy.

"Um…" She had one foot in his interlocked hands. The other was still in the snow. Hermione placed her hands rather stiffly on his shoulders. She thought she might have sardine-breath. Did he _have_ to look so annoyed? There was no other way they could have done this. "I need to, uh-"

"Just get on with it," he snapped.

Holding on to his shoulders, she hoisted herself up and felt his hands grab her ankles. At this point, she found herself clinging to the lower branches and realizing that she was either heavier than she had anticipated or just weaker. The branches seemed sturdy enough, thankfully. With Malfoy's initial assistance, she climbed cautiously, testing the tree limbs to see if they could hold her weight.

When she halfway to the top, she breathed a sigh of relief and wrapped her legs as tightly as she could manage around the trunk while she tied the bit of red material around the base of a thick branch. She really shouldn't have looked down, because prior to this she hadn't realized just how far up she was from the ground.

Malfoy was staring up at her, his hands shading his eyes from the glare.

"I suppose now's not a good time to tell you I'm actually afraid of heights!" she called down.

"A few meters off the ground isn't generally considered 'heights'," came the unsympathetic response.

The climb downwards was a quicker affair. She simply held on to the trunk and slid down. Her thick, coarse clothing provided enough friction such that the pace was controlled.

When her feet were on solid ground, such as it was, Hermione and Lucius looked up the marked branch. The scrap of red material flapped alarmingly in the wind, but Hermione had knotted it well in place.

The first marker was completed. Only a dozen or so more to go, probably.

It took them three hours. By the time they'd used up the fourth colour (blue), Hermione's legs had turned to jelly. Her arms were shaking. She could barely take a step without pausing for breath. They were both visibly fatigued, but Malfoy didn't look ill at all. She, on the other hand, was dizzy and a little nauseous. The fact that she hadn't really eaten anything all day didn't improve the situation. She felt like an idiot for not having fortified herself before leaving the cabin.

Malfoy wasn't finished, however. He was holding on to their last bit of blue cloth. It was a blue canvas bib with yellow flowers on it, or at least, that's what it had once been.

They were on a slight rise, about a forty minute walk from the cabin. It was a scrawny birch tree this time and the little hill that it sat on provided a perfect line of sight with the far off cabin. Another ideal marker.

"Last one for today, I think," he said.

Hermione hugged herself. "Yay."

He was occupied looking at her critically. She squirmed a little under the intense, gray scrutiny. The past three hours of hard work had been carried out with minimum fuss and no insults. In her weary state, she didn't think she'd last through another disagreement with him.

"I'll take this one. You look like you're going to drop." He narrowed his eyes at her. "_Don't_, by the way. I am not carrying you."

She pulled off her gloves and rubbed at her dry eyes, too exhausted to be baited. "I'm fine," she mumbled.

"Granger, you've been turning an increasing shade of bloodless for the last hour."

"Have I?" she asked, a little groggily.

It was testament to how unwell she was that she didn't much care when Malfoy took off his own gloves, tilted her face back and stared at her beadily. His bare hand felt incredibly warm as he cupped her jaw. This grip was nothing like the one before. He was being deliberately gentle.

The heat of his hand was _wonderful_. Without thinking, she leaned her icy, wind-blasted cheek into it.

He frowned at this. She felt the pad of his thumb run over her bottom lip and press upon it lightly. Hermione shivered. The strange fatigue was overpowering. It was curious that she wasn't exactly cold, just sleepy. She found herself staring at Malfoy's chest, covered with the dense wool of his cloak and beneath that was the luxurious fabric of his robes. She wanted to rest her cheek against his chest and close her eyes. Just for a bit. Better yet, she imagined him opening his cloak and enveloping her with it. The very thought of how warm it would be nearly made her groan.

She was just tired, too weary at that point to care that he was a pureblood supremist arsehole who probably wouldn't piss on her if she was on fire.

Ew. Nice imagery there.

_What on earth was wrong with her?_ She didn't want Malfoy's hands on her, for any reason. A frazzled Hermione straightened up, but his hands followed her. Had she been observing herself in a mirror, she would have seen that the blood was not quick to rush back to the point on her lip where he had deliberately applied light pressure.

"It's altitude sickness," he concluded. He was so close she could feel his voice reverberate through her. "You need to return to the cabin."

Altitude sickness? She thought that was only something mountaineers suffered from. But then they _were_ on a mountain.

"How come you don't have it?" she asked him.

"If I had it, I've likely acclimatized quicker than you have."

"Oh," she said, for lack of anything better to say. "Is it lethal?" She did not sound particularly concerned, and neither did he when he replied.

"Only if you faint, because as I said, I'm not carrying you back."

What a charmer he was. Hermione snatched the bit of blue canvas from him and resolutely marched towards the tree. If she made it through studying for her NEWTS with hardly any sleep for months, she could bloody well finish tying a bit a cloth to this tree.

"Hurry up, then. This skinny birch isn't going to hold your weight so obviously _I'm_ going to have to do it."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her tone, but did not argue the point. He assisted her up the tree and observed as she tied on the last marker. "One more knot, Granger. The wind up here is particularly fast."

Hermione tied the additional knot with fingers that felt heavy and thick. Her descent was less controlled than she had previously executed. She managed it without falling and that was good enough.

It'd been a productive day. They had put up enough markers that should they ever get lost in the area, the odds were that they would come across a marked tree which would advertise its distance and location relative to the cabin. Further exploration would be rendered much safer now.

"Done," she sighed, pulling her gloves back on.

The wind was indeed rough. It had successfully blown most of her long hair out of her ponytail. She tucked her curls behind her ears, only to have the whole mass whip about her face once again. "Can we go home now?"

Lucius looked at her feet. The long walk back was obviously going to be an effort for her in the deep snow. "It would be a good idea if you made snowshoes for yourself."

Hermione gave him an incredulous look. "I would have, but you won't lend me your knife, remember?"

He didn't, apparently. She gathered that his particular brand of unpleasantness sometimes operated on unconscious autopilot.

"Borrow it when we return," he said, imperiously.

The first thing Hermione was going to do when they got back to the cabin was stick her head in her water bucket. She suddenly found that she was desperately thirsty.

"You did well today."

Surely she had misheard? Lucius Malfoy would not be offering up any words of praise, however casually given, to the likes of _her_.

In any case she was wholly occupied simply trying to walk in the snow, which was now thigh-deep in sections. After some very limited progress through deep gouges, an annoyed Malfoy began pulling her along by her hand. Hermione was too grateful to care that he was touching her again.


	8. Chapter 8

-8-

_Oh jolly good,_ I hear wolves.

I add this to the growing list of Things That May Yet End Up Killing Me. The last entry on the list, as you may recall, was the Mudblood's cooking. She can do some truly horrific things with grains and peas.

I'm not even going to talk about the sardines.

During our first few days, I suppose at the back of mind, I knew there _had_ to be wolves. Along with boar, deer, winter fowl and maybe even lynxes.

Arguably, my attention has been occupied elsewhere. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so they say. Although I haven't seen any wolves, simply _hearing _them is enough. There is nothing quite as chilling as listening to that nearby baying and knowing that even at my fastest speed, a child toddling about on solid ground could affect a quicker escape than I can.

The only other weapon I carry besides my small knife is this axe; large, cumbersome and clumsy. It's blunt, which makes it twice as dangerous to use.

My left hand occasionally twinges. I am suffering from an intense, _physical_ yearning for my wand. I cannot adequately explain what it feels like to not have it.

Wherever Bellatrix is right now, dead or alive, I hope that demented bitch is _suffering_. She snapped my wand in half before destroying her own. To watch your wand reduced to kindling is bad. Watching someone else destroy theirs is like watching infanticide.

Bellatrix is _insane_. We all know this. She knew her final actions in that soiled, bloody room were liable to be her last. I doubt I killed her, however. She can be thick-skulled. Voldemort was correct when he once said to me that Bellatrix was well and truly without equal. The world can only handle one Bellatrix Lestrange at a time, thank you very much. That she is related to Narcissa seems remarkable. Though I will readily admit that they are both tenacious creatures in their own way.

_Bella wants what Cissa has. _

This has always been the case. I can well imagine their mother tiredly reciting that line to strangers who may have looked on in alarm as Bellatrix tried to wrestle Narcissa's latest doll from the latter's grasp. If Narcissa had a kitten, Bellatrix wanted it, plotted to get it, _got it_ and then would find some excessively flamboyant way of killing the thing. Usually with Narcissa watching on helplessly.

I am eternally thankful for having been an only child. And given Draco's propensity to attract trouble like gold-digging witches to a trust fund, I am equally glad that Narcissa and I didn't endeavour to provide Draco with a sibling to torment.

Merlin, we could have ended up with a pair of Black sisters.

I believe I was only three weeks into my marriage to Narcissa when I came home one solitudinous evening to discover Bellatrix in my bed, wearing only a knowing smile. Alas, I was twenty-two and Bellatrix was (and I suppose, still is) a beautiful woman.

In Narcissa, I found a perfectly acceptable wife and partner who did her duty not so much with clenched teeth as clenched thighs. She is an exquisite creature to behold, but I have not known a woman to dislike coitus as much as my ex-wife. It was only ever with Narcissa that I felt compelled to almost_ apologize_ after we undertook our conjugal obligations. You understand how this may tend to dampen one's ardour, after a while.

In contrast, Bellatrix bedded me like she was trying to purge the memory of her sister from my flesh. She wanted Narcissa to be a pale imitation of her, in more ways than just metaphorically.

I'm sorry to say that at that age, you tend to see this sort of dedication as a compliment. It didn't take me long, however, to realize that Bellatrix's passion stemmed from her desire to control and possess, and not because she found my company pleasurable. And once I realized _that_, all her passionate declarations fizzled to nothing, especially when compared to Narcissa's simple, honest and consistent care of me.

A nobly born, Pureblood woman of good breeding is not a witch to be taken lightly. With great wealth and power often comes quite a bit of infrastructure. So inevitably, behind every notable pureblooded wizard, is a woman than _organizes_. Such women are educated, refined and more importantly, intelligent only when the need arises.

Narcissa _rose_ to the occasion and I was astute enough to recognize what I had.

It would be true to say that both the Black sisters were trained to be model wives. It just so happened that Narcissa was susceptible to this training. Bellatrix was not. She was never meant to belong to anyone except Voldemort, who didn't own her as much as _wield_ her.

In any case, she soon realized that I looked after my own best interests, first and foremost. It was _not_ in my best interests to have some besotted, mental case panting after me. There was also the significant matter of her being Voldemort's consort at the time.

Now _that_ was a love triangle only a lunatic would voluntarily engage in.

Poor Rodolphus, the ultimate cuckold. He stood in the wings and watched on helplessly. Can anyone blame him for not making his displeasure known? 'No' is not something Bellatrix hears very often. Why her parents even bothered marrying her off is a bit of a mystery.

I wish I had had the time (or the inclination) to the take the poor bastard aside for a few words of friendly advice. You know, one Death Eater to another.

I broke it off, obviously. It had to be done. Narcissa was pregnant with Draco and I wasn't about to have her unstable sister laying any sort of claim to my son. It was bad enough he ended up calling her _Auntie Bella_, while she has a whole cringe-worthy slew of endearments she uses on him.

I was never comfortable with the slightly proprietorial look she would give him. That she _still_ gives him.

To say that she didn't take my rejection well is putting it mildly. The crazy woman tried to stab me in my own bed.

Now, I can be called upon to deliver a convincing show of sincerity when necessity requires, which is why I sought to enlist Bellatrix's last-minute assistance in taking down the boundary wards at the Revel. I was hoping she had perhaps forgotten her attempt to kill me for spurning her nearly two decades ago.

The problem, however, is not her good memory. It is that Bellatrix _knows_ me. All too well, the woman bloody knows me. She has, after all, been witness to my less than guarded moments. She has seen me firsthand in situations that I would not willingly subject Narcissa to, or even Draco.

Bellatrix got some measure of revenge in the end, though. The wand she destroyed last week was my third.

I had my first wand for thirty-six years. You never forget your first. No other wand will ever feel quite so good in your hand; the magic will never flow as smoothly as it did using your original. I so clearly remember selecting it with due awe and reverence from Ollivander's, at the tender age of five. The laws in peacetime used to be more lax. These days you are not permitted your own wand until ten years of age, at the earliest.

I was forced to purchase a second wand when I was nearly twenty, after the Ministry's decision to lift the ban on ad hoc _priori incantatem_ three years after I took the Mark. I had both wands, for a time, one that the public saw--and that suspicious parties repeatedly checked--and my prized original, which I used for covert activities in Voldemort's service. All three wands had the same core of dragon heartstring. The first two were of course taken from me when I was captured and imprisoned.

And as it was during my brief stay at Azkaban, I can feel the magic building up inside me now, under my skin, behind my eyes, between my fingers, twisting around them in invisible coils. It is an itch that I cannot scratch, that I cannot reach. It is restlessness, an energy that unfortunately cannot be diverted to relieving my physical fatigue.

I have performed simple wandless spells since being marooned here; the odd _accio_, flickering attempts at _lumos_ and other types of basic charms for moving things. With enough concentration, I can do minor pushing, pulling, and levitating. More complex magic that involves repeated actions or a combination of actions, like chopping wood, for example, are impossible without a wand.

The simple spells may work, but the magic feels slow and sticky, like dripping treacle from my fingers. I imagine myself to be a wineskin, filled to bursting with thick blood that is clotting more and more with each passing day.

Wandless magic is like pricking this bag with a needle. The resulting seep of magic actually hurts more than it helps. It creates a phantom sensation of pressure building up _behind_ that small pinprick. Wandwork, in contrast, is fluid. A wonderfully controlled stream of power that you can turn on and off like a tap.

I think I can hear snuffling noises now.

The sounds are coming from behind the jagged, granite rocks some distance in front of me. That earlier baying must have been a precursor to the hunt. Apparently _wizard_ is on the menu this afternoon.

I am finished laying the traps. I stand now, brushing the snow from my knees. There it is again, the snuffling, followed by a long, keening howl that makes me scan the granite horizon keenly. It started snowing about five minutes ago, a light, melt-on-your-face snow, which basically means that I'm going to be soaked by the time I get back. That's if it doesn't progress to a blizzard.

If so, I may not make it back at all.

The traps I fashioned took longer than expected. This is due to the fact that I have no experience in setting up such devices. The kinds of traps I usually favour involve blackmail, coercion and quite a lot of lying.

My knowledge of the flora and fauna of the Balkan mountain range is limited to what I know about the wildlife and geography of Eastern Europe in general. I know enough to be wary of sudden, expected snowfall that doesn't last very long, but can kill with its intensity. I know that large game hunting is still popular here, which is why I had hoped that generations of over-enthusiastic Muggle hunters and their loud, polluting weapons had virtually rendered wolves non-existent in these parts.

Not so, apparently.

The baying becomes scrabbling and an excited yipping that echoes across the craggy peaks. I'm fairly confident I could handle a hungry lynx, given that they are solitary hunters.

But a pack of near-staving wolves?

An ecstatic Granger will only find my clean, well-gnawed bones come spring.

I am in a rare clearing, in between what seems to be the end of one part of the forest and its continuation into denser, deeper woodland. The snow here is not so deep because the trees are packed together more tightly. Still, the cabin is more than an hour's walk behind me with my snowshoes on.

I have constructed two traps. I cannot hope to attract any kind of sizeable carnivores, given that the only bait I have at my disposal are legumes, grains and smashed up sardines. The nets are made from braided strips of bed sheet and will not hold a creature much heavier than a bird or a rabbit.

Winter fowl passes through these parts. Apart from the pair of pigeons that we ate, we have not encountered any on the ground or in the trees. But I have seen them flying past the cabin. Very likely, there is a large body of water not far from us. Though if it is not frozen solid this far into the season, it soon will be. I have made a mental note to search for it. Even frozen water attracts animals to it, if only out of habit.

I am hoping to catch the sort of meal that flies or lollops, but really at this stage, one cannot afford to be persnickety.

However, if I have to look at another pea again, I fear I will _snap_.

Grey shapes, like dirty mist, now condense out of the snowy cloud on top of the granite mound. I count three of them. These aren't the sleek, luxuriant-furred creatures you see painted in children's story books. Even fictitious 'bad' wolves look less hellish than these emaciated, salivating creatures.

So perhaps I was right; the game hunting up here really isn't as good as it once was. These wolves resemble nothing so much as patchy bits of bedraggled fur stretched tightly over a framework of ribs. They are starving and an adult human, magical or not, is too good an opportunity to pass up.

Even if he happens to be carrying an axe.

I move, shuffling backwards through the ankle-deep snow. The traps are in front of me, one on my right, and the other near the left tree line. I doubt they will hold a wolf, not even a skinny one, but they might just tangle one up long enough for me to swing the axe.

A late arriving member of the pack arrives over the granite hill. His coat is as black as my clothing and so he stands out against the whiteness in the distance. He is _enormous_, easily twice as big as his counterparts, though certainly no less gaunt. We eyeball each other, through the light snowfall.

Curiously, he does not approach.

While the other three snarl and attempt to circle me, the big male stands and watches. His muzzle drips saliva and he is baring his teeth, but he is more cautious. I know leadership when I see it.

"_Lumos_."

The light flares and sputters in my open palm. Without any dragon heartstring, I cannot sustain it for very long.

These wolves know fire, apparently. And they are afraid of it. Two immediately back away, but the third merely snarls with renewed vigour and slinks forward. An end to his hunger may just be worth a brush with my 'fire'.

My focus wavers. The ball of light snuffs out. I call it again and try and keep it there as I haul the axe up in my right hand. As I do this, the approaching wolf makes its move.

I can only think of a worse way to die than being eaten by wild animals. And since I have already survived wandless Apparation, I decide that I'm not about to become anyone's dinner without making them work bloody hard for it.

It runs at me. I abandon my puny ball of light and grip the axe haft with both hands, ready to swing it like a Beater's bat.

But just as the snarling creature makes to leap into the air, about five or so meters in front of me, excruciatingly close to me second trap, something distracts it. It goes rigid, flailing its head from side to side as if attacked by a swarm of invisible bees. It back away from the space in front of me, biting and snapping at the air and then whimpering.

I watch, as it turns and scampers off towards the direction of the black male, tail held low between its hind legs. The other two bystanders had been waiting for an excuse to run. They follow without hesitation. I have no idea why they backed down, but the relief is enormous.

At this point, something like "that will teach you!" or a simple, yet timeless, "hah!" would be fitting. However, I belatedly realize that I was quite _concerned_ earlier, even if that _concern_ had been masquerading as nonchalance.

After ten minutes of standing there like a fool, holding the axe in front of me like some daft woodsman hit with _petrificus_, all I can manage is a pathetic, "right then..."

The wolves are well and truly gone. I hear nothing but the wind. I turn my back and head home.

_Home?_ I mean, I head back to the _cabin_. Damn the Mudblood, I seem to be picking up some of her bad habits.

**

Alastor Moody sat across from Draco Malfoy, a cup of tea balancing on his knee. He regretted filling his cup to the brim and with no milk added to cool the brew. The tea was very hot, which would make a quick leap towards Harry the absolute _last_ thing he wanted to do.

From the look on Potter's face, it was only a matter of time.

Trust Malfoy to think this was any kind of occasion for tea and scones. He hadn't met them at the front door when the Aurors had arrived at the allotted appointment time to question him. A servant has seen to the task, ushering them into a drawing room where afternoon tea had already been laid out. There, Moody and Harry waited in a tension filled silence, until the current lord of the Manor turned up. At his leisure, of course.

"Huh," Malfoy said, after Harry had told him what he'd been rehearsing all the way there. "I can tell you one thing, Potter."

Moody gingerly picked up the cup and saucer, quickly transferring it to the small cake table in front of him. A little bit of piping hot tea sloshed out onto the saucer.

"Even if I knew where the stupid cow is, it's not like I'd tell you, is it?"

Harry launched at Malfoy, but Moody was able to get to him in time. The older Auror caught Harry around his midsection, pulling him back.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, you smug little prick!" Harry roared at Draco.

"I distinctly remember you saying this _wouldn't_ happen!" Moody reminded Harry, through gritted teeth. He was impressed. The boy was skinny, but he was stronger than he looked.

Malfoy had shot to his feet, his hand reaching into his robes. "Come on, then! You've only been _thinking_ it since third year! Let's see you finally do something about it!"

Two wands were brandished. A furious Moody bravely stepped between the furious pair.

"Sit down and shut up! The both of you!" he shouted. He had one hand on Harry's right wrist, while the force of his glare settled none too gently over Draco. "I'd bury the attitude, boy, if I were you." Moody narrowed his good eye. "We know you know nothing, so it'd be pointless trying to wind us up."

Draco went bright red at this. He opened his mouth.

"Think carefully before speaking," Moody snapped. "We can question you here, or we can drag you to a cold, cramped little cell. And with the current staff shortages, why, it might even take a whole week before we file all the paperwork that lets us merely _start_ the interrogation."

"Interrogation?" Draco sneered. "What happened to 'friendly little chat'!"

Moody stepped forward and gave a sharp push into the middle of Draco's chest. The latter, in frozen fury, fell back into his seat. "So sorry if you misunderstood me, young man. My definition of 'friendly little chat' is quite broad." Moody turned to Harry next. "You right then, Potter?" he barked.

Harry was still staring deadly murder at Draco. He adjusted the front of his dark blue Auror robes. "Yeah. Fine," he muttered, without taking his eyes of Draco's livid face.

"Park your arse," Moody hissed.

Harry sat.

"Now then," the old Auror began, reclaiming his seat. The settee was cream, which in Moody's opinion, was a ridiculous colour to sit on. Unless you were the sort to wash your hands a lot, never eat while sitting, and if you were able to sit, as Malfoy was currently doing, like you'd been _arranged_ by someone with a decorating diploma. He was reminded of just how much he hated the upper crust Pureblood families. Posturing over-entitled gits and simpering, scheming women, the lot of them. "We can't threaten you with much, Malfoy. Not without any evidence of your sideline work."

"Mr. Moody, I have no idea what you're talking about," Draco drawled.

"_Of course_," Moody replied smoothly. He tried for a smile. Given the slightly misshapen, lopsided quality of his face, the effect was scary. "But given your family history, I suppose I could spare an additional two Aurors to keep an eye on you."

Draco lost some of his colour. "What! I already have two of those bastards watching my every move! Not to mention that bloody bust in the foyer! And you still have _nothing_ on me. This is harassment!"

"Harassment would have been me standing aside two minutes ago while Potter re-arranged your face," Moody cheerfully responded.

Draco snorted. "That would have been assault."

Moody leaned in over the delicate cake table. "Actually, assault is what happens when I come in extra early in the morning to visit you at your Ministry interrogation cell, before the day-watch even gets through their first cup of tea."

"Oh? Is that a threat?"

Moody straightened up in his seat. He had to hand it to the boy. There were few who didn't, at the very least, _wilt_ a little when faced with Moody's intense displeasure. Draco was flustered, but he was far from shaking in his expensive boots. He was a right little nob, of course, but it was clear that the apple did not fall far from the tree.

"Let's start over, shall we?" Moody sighed. "A simple yes or no response will be enough. Do you know anything about the disappearance of Hermione Granger?"

"No."

"Have you had any contact with Death Eaters in the past three months, _including _your father?"

"No."

"That's a lie!" Harry interrupted.

Draco raised his chin. "Prove it."

"We believe you heard from your father last month, in fact," Moody supplied. "He pulled out an envelope and extricated a piece of parchment. It was full, top to bottom, with cramped handwriting.

"Recognise this?"

Draco barely glanced at the paper before handing it back. He gave Moody a bland look. "It's a letter from an admirer. You've been intercepting my Owl post and making copies. How predictable."

"Who sends these to you?" Moody demanded. "The letter was posted at the south of France, from a small wizarding settlement in Languedoc Roussillon."

Draco snatched the letter back and read the name signed at the bottom. "Ah, there we are. A 'Miss Sandrine d'Arcy' sends these to me." He smiled at Moody and then at Harry. "Apparently."

"And why in the world would _you_ be receiving fan mail, Malfoy? There is no Sandrine D'Arcy living in Languedoc Roussillon as at the last magical census undertaken there."

Draco shrugged. "Who knows what goes on in the minds of young girls who read too much British Witch Weekly." He leaned back in his wingback chair and blinked innocently. "I understand I have quite a following in France."

Harry made a disgusted sound.

"It's coded, obviously," Moody said. "We can't break it. Our best people have spent weeks on this letter and all the others like it, and we still cannot make out what is really written here."

Moody had been hoping that excessive praise of Lucius Malfoy's ingenious method to communicate with his son would lull Draco into giving something away. The boy was arrogant enough to slip up, he thought. Moody was after a smirk from the young man, perhaps a knowing glint, something to advertise to Moody that the letter possibly contained crucial information about plans to abduct Hermione.

But Draco face was a mask of carefully constructed nothing. If the code was indeed hiding something about the kidnapping, Draco was concealing its importance brilliantly.

However, Moody was inclined to believe the boy really was clueless about Granger's disappearance. Unfortunately. A warrant for arrest and more enthusiastic questioning would have been wonderful.

"Your father is known for his skills in magical ciphers," Moody commented.

"He's a man of many talents," Draco said, neutrally.

"Yeah", said Harry. "Is kidnapping one of them?"

Moody ignored that, as did Draco. "Where were you last Wednesday?" Moody asked.

"I was with a young lady at a dinner engagement."

Harry snorted. "Someone actually said _yes _to a date with you? Where do you do your trawling? The psychiatric ward at St Mungos?"

Draco met the taunt. "Where I met the lovely Mrs. Longbottom. Not much for conversation, sadly, but pull out a bright, shiny wrapper from your pocket and suddenly you have her _undivided_ attention."

Harry was stunned into enraged silence. Moody was quicker to recover. "I don't know what Albus Dumbledore sees in you, Malfoy," he said, looking very grave. "But on his advice to the Ministry, we have not invaded every inch of this place and taken you into custody, lack of evidence be damned. Dumbledore tells us to hold back, to _wait_. Scrimgeour likes doing things by the book, but he and I go back a _long_ way and he owes me. If I was running this operation, I'd have made sure your father was Kissed the very same day we caught him and that you, my boy, spend a good, long while in prison. I doubt the world would miss either of you very much."

"Then it seems I owe Albus Dumbledore a debt of gratitude," Draco said, though there was a certain sobriety to his tone now, as if he understood that the two Aurors had been pushed past their limits of tolerance that afternoon.

"Who was the girl you had dinner with?" Harry asked, trying to steer the questioning back to calmer waters.

Draco stared at him for a moment, as if forgetting he was there. "I am not at liberty to reveal her name."

"Malfoy," Moody said, "your _liberty_ is what is at stake here. If we wanted, we can find out her identity easily enough."

"Very well, if you must know, it was Marjorie Skillingsworth."

"Skillingsworth!" Harry turned surprised eyes to Moody. "She's one of his surveillance team!"

"Yes, she is, and a prodigiously good surveyor at that," Draco said, "Though I think her career's just taken a nosedive, yes?" Malfoy looked on in amusement. There was no remorse on his face. He had fully intended to tell on Marjorie.

Moody wanted to thump on something, _hard_. What had he said to Scrimgeour when the surveillance rosters had been organised? Do not put any young, female Aurors on the roster because well, let's be realistic here, the Malfoy men had a certain...reputation.

When required, Lucius, in particular, could charm the fangs of a vampire. Back when he'd still been a lawful citizen, there'd been a _reason _why the Ministry had given him the ridiculous job of parleying with the Muggle Parliamentary Representative that visited annually.

Lucius Malfoy in Muggle Relations. It was like a really, really bad joke.

Scrimgeour had taken this suggestion as a personal insult. These women were professionals, he'd insisted. They were _trained_!

Moody had been called (or dragged, rather) out of retirement to train new Aurors. He remembered every single kid that came through his ranks. Skillingsworth had been a bit of a plodder to start off with, but she'd been first-rate by graduation. She was also quite pretty, a fact which had made her eminently unsuitable for the task of watching Draco Malfoy.

Draco, meanwhile, was enjoying the look of disgust on Harry's face. "Jealous, Potter? Isn't that little red head of yours satisfying your constant need to be adored?"

"That little redhead would rather be satisfying her need to maim you," spat Harry.

"I do so enjoy crossing paths with her every time I'm called to the Ministry. I rather think she likes me," Draco added, with a liberal dash of wistful.

Moody was readying himself to break up yet another altercation, but it looked like Harry had put his brains back in now.

"Uhuh," nodded Harry, "like the average person likes venereal disease."

They smartly returned to the questioning. The questions were routine and to each, Draco responded without hesitation.

When it was over, Moody grabbed a scone. He tore a hole in it and filled it to the best of his ability (given the ambitious size of the hole) with fresh cream and strawberry jam. No sense in letting good food go to waste.

Draco's voice was cool when he stood. "Thank you for your visit. I hope it was enlightening for you. If you wait in the foyer, I will have someone see you out."

"No need," Moody barked, "we know the way. Come along, Potter." He exited the drawing room first, in his usual hobbling gait, but Harry paused at the wide door.

Draco eyed him. "One last question, is it, Potter?"

"What did she ever do to you?" Harry asked, quietly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What did Hermione ever do to you that you hate her so much?"

"I should think you'd know the answer to that." Draco blinked pure malice. "She was _born_."

Harry walked back into the room, standing before Draco. "Does being born a Muggle make her any less of a human being than you or I?"

"It makes her less than me, but not so much less than you, given your origins," Draco said.

Moody, having noted that Harry hadn't followed him out of the room, re-appeared at the door. He did not intercede this time, however, and merely watched the confrontation while chewing on his scone.

"What if it was your mum who'd been kidnapped?" Harry continued. "What if it was your own mother snatched off the street and going through God only knows what right now?" His voice broke. "I don't know how you do what you do, Malfoy. I've…_both_ of us have seen such terrible things committed in Voldemort's name. How can you stand there and pretend none of it has affected you?" Harry's voice was shaking with emotion now. "You're smart, Draco. Merlin knows you beat me all too easily at school. How can such a smart person follow such a--such a _lie_?"

"Because it's not a lie, that's why!"

"Who said he's right? Voldemort endorsed his own ideas? No surprises there! What authority does he have to say that Hermione deserves less of a right to be here than you do? Where is his majority, where are his decent, law-abiding supporters?"

Draco sneered. "Granger is-"

Harry got there first. "Hermione Granger is the kind of person who would _save you_," he said, nodding for emphasis. "She'd save you, Draco. If you were caught in the middle of a fight that wasn't your own and if you needed help, even at risk to her own life, she'd help you. She wouldn't care how horrid you were to her at school, or that you don't think she should even be breathing the same air as you. She'd still think you were worth saving. And _somehow_ you think someone like _that_ is worth less than you. What kind of person are you, Malfoy?"

"I am my father's son," Draco spat, but Harry heard the tremor in his voice. Moody heard it too.

There was a long moment of silence.

Harry wasn't finished. "I bet you say that a lot, but I wonder what you think that has to mean."

"Are you done?" Draco snapped, finally managing to lose his composure. He loomed over Harry, taking full advantage of his taller frame. "_If so, then get the hell out of my house._"

Moody cleared his throat. "We were just leaving, weren't we, Potter?"

Harry followed this time. It wasn't until they cleared the front gates that Moody stopped to pat at his robe pockets, looking for something. He eventually pulled out a slightly gnarled-looking cigar and lit it with his wand. They walked, as Moody puffed on the awful thing.

"You did well," the old Auror commented.

Harry was silent for a while. He stared straight ahead. "I wanted to kill him."

"Good thing you didn't. Imagine the paperwork if I had to step in and arrest you."

It was a lame joke. If you knew Moody well enough, he told you lots of them. Harry didn't think he'd ever be able to find anything funny, not ever again.

"Do you think he'll slip up now?"

Moody took a long drag. "Possibly. He's a careful son of a bitch, but it'll be a damnable insult to his pride that he doesn't know what they've done with the girl. He might start asking questions. And if we play our cards right, we'll be there when those questions are answered."

They were approaching the nearby village. "What about Snape?"

"Aurors always have a backup plan, boy," was Moody's response.

"So Snape is Plan B?" Harry asked.

Moody snorted smoke. "No. He's always been Plan A. The man's ego wouldn't have tolerated anything less. There'll be a Summoning soon. You mark my words and by Merlin, we'll have some answers."

"By then, she could already be dead…"

Moody patted Harry on the shoulder. "Voldemort's not that much of a fool, Potter. The girl is more valuable alive."

But to Harry, it still sounded like Moody had not succeeded in convincing even himself yet.

**

It's getting darker more quickly than it did last week.

Flickering light comes through the unboarded window at the front of the cabin, making me pause. The wolves have not followed me. My long walk back was thankfully uneventful save for the fact that the snowfall seems to have progressed to a blizzard. I can taste the weather in the air; tangy, cold and dry. I bend down to take my snowshoes off.

The light from the window flickers again.

Against my better judgment, holding on to my dismantled snowshoes and my axe, I silently make me way to the window. I'm aware that I'm still breathing heavily from the hike back, still slightly on edge from my near miss with the wolves. My fight or flight response settles into a sharp, dark curiosity. I am compelled to look through the window.

The Mudblood is washing herself.

She would not have expected me to return so soon. And that certainly wouldn't have been the case had I not run into a pack of hungry wolves in the middle of setting up my traps. By all rights I should walk through the front door, kick my boots off, sit in the armchair by the fire and take in its life-sustaining heat. I want a drink of water and something atrocious to eat.

Then why on earth am I standing here?

_Clearly_ I am avoiding causing the girl embarrassment by entering the privacy of the cabin now while she stands before the fire, naked as an egg. _Obviously_ I am avoiding an unnecessary, tedious encounter where she will no doubt shriek, turn a brilliant shade of red, assume the worst of me and then cower.

I think sometimes even _I_ forget what a good liar I am. I am not hurling through that front door because at this moment, I am wholly content to simply watch her.

The snowfall has increased with each passing minute. My eyelashes and eyebrows are stiff with ice. My breath is a dense, foggy cloud in front of me. I am chilled to the bone. The wind has picked up howling where those damned wolves left off.

And yet I am still outside in this cold, looking into the cabin, like some lecherous, old bastard.

I have seen the girl naked prior to this. The sight of her disrobed should not be startling to me in any way. But there is a difference, I soon discover, in observing an unconscious, terrified, nude Hermione Granger, and watching the girl go about her current task in perceived privacy, completely relaxed. Indeed there is a soft expression on her face. I wouldn't be surprised if she is humming, clearly enjoying her peace. There is no tension in her body. Fear is not drawing her up tight, icy and brittle.

She puts her foot up on the chair by the kitchen table and in a manner that is entirely too slow to be productive, bends down to wipe up and down her slim calves. Everything is quite literally bathed in gold. The heat inside the cabin fogs up the paned glass, which lends an unfocussed dream-like quality to what I'm observing.

Granger is using her flannel scrap of cloth to wipe herself, dipping it into a steaming bucket of water. Her wet hair is twisted over one shoulder, dripping. Lines of glistening, golden water run down her body, a steady stream slipping down between her breasts, smaller lines disappearing into the neat, curly brown triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs.

I watch the dance. Dip, squeeze, wipe, dip…

She may be unhurried, but she is _thorough_. There is not one part of her that isn't given a good scrubbing; behind her ears, the back of her neck under her heavy hair, between her toes.

Finally she kneels beside the bucket to dip her long hair inside the water, massaging vigorously at her scalp. Her nipples graze the rough rim of the wooden bucket, her breasts sway delicately back and forth.

I've seen enough. In fact, I believe I've seen _too much_.

I move away from the window, scowling. Equal parts disturbed and intrigued.

By God, I want this explained!

I am not some inexperienced, young fop who tents his trousers at first sight of a naked girl. And while we're dabbling with honesty, I might as well acknowledge that my trousers are _not_ tented. That was five minutes ago. Currently, my cock is pointing upwards towards the grey, snow-clouded sky. I am as hard as the granite under all this fucking snow.

I wonder if this undesirable turn of events was inevitable. Perhaps a man and a woman (even if this one is still mostly a child) cannot expect to be confined in these types of intense, life or death situations without certain...hmm, what is the word I'm looking for..._urges_ rising to the fore?

Unhappily, I unfold the old cliché, like some unwanted sweet from the bottom of my limited bag of patience and examine it. The fact is that it has been a while since I last took a woman to bed.

All that reminiscing about my early years with Bellatrix has _clearly_ not helped matters. I decide to be unsurprised. Resigned, even. Given the sexually-charged circumstances from where I took Granger from in the first place, and the manner in which she was initially presented to me…why yes, this was inevitable.

There is also the animosity between us; our mutual dislike, which seems to be set to a constant state of _simmer_. My own anger has been quick to boil over lately. To her credit, the Mudblood has been doing a much better job of disguising her aversion to me.

Surely all that anger, the frustration and my anxiety has simply been misdirected into other avenues.

That, and of course I _am_ an utter bastard.

Odd how I never found her helplessness stirring before. I had simply thought of her as tiresome burden, a necessary bit of baggage that I had to return to the Ministry in one piece. She was only ever meant to be the risky means to an end.

Now her reliance on me paints all sorts of interesting possibilities. To say she _owes_ me is putting it mildly. It would be heartening to see permanent respect in her eyes and not just fleeting terror when I lose my temper and frighten her. I should very much like to damage her infernal, deep-seated sense of entitlement; that blasphemous pride and conviction that gives her purpose.

My current physical discomfort could easily be solved by walking into the cabin, throwing her down by the fire and slamming away on top of her until I'm satisfied. Yes, I do realize I am being even more a cur than usual to even attempt justifying demanding that as payment for having saved her life.

Hermione Granger knows that I could reduce her to a bleeding, snivelling mess in minutes.

However, that would take us down a difficult road. One that could possibly end with Granger attempting to chop my head off (or worse) with the axe while I'm asleep. Not to mention how it would complicate my negotiations with the Ministry if I return her to them, ill-used.

Despite my allusions, and despite what the girl may think of me, I am not a fan of rape. As effective as it sometimes can be, it is such a crude, messy and unimaginative way to exercise your power over another person.

There are other more rewarding ways to break a spirit.

Idly, I wonder how she would have endured the Revel and its aftermath had I not interceded. If she failed to find some way to kill herself, I believe that Granger's strength of character might have seen her through the ordeal.

What a pity that in the end, strength of character can't stand up to a quiet, tidy, Avada Kedavra.

It appears the girl has finished with her bathing. She wipes herself down with a cotton shirt from the suitcase and pulls on layers of clothing. I observe, with some surprise, that she is using my belt. It had been merely superfluous to my clothing and I have not found another purpose for it yet. It's too long for her, obviously, but she had punctured a new hole through the leather and so the belt holds up her large trousers.

Enough of this! I am not freezing to death out here just to safeguard the little bookworm's modesty. I walk through the ever-deepening snow and shove the front door open, perhaps with a tad too much force. It swings back and slams against the wall.

She is drying her hair in front of the fire and turns around to stare at me. Her hair is twice as curly as usual and her cheeks are pink from their recent scrubbing. "You're back," she says to me, her eyes wide as saucers.

I suspect my odious mood is easily discernible. I suppose I do look a little frightening. I haven't had a shave in more than a week, or a change of clothing. I am slightly iced-over and no doubt the manic look in my eyes from the encounter with the wolves is still there.

"What happened?" she demands, suddenly looking concerned. "I'd thought you'd be out until sunset, at least."

Her perceptiveness annoys me sometimes. "Wolves," I say, throwing my damp cloak to the armchair. I sit to take my boots off.

She stands over me, looking down in mild horror. "Are you serious? Actual wolves!"

"No, Granger. They were overgrown moles. With teeth and claws."

One boot and then the second boot falls with a dull thud. These socks absolutely _have_ to go. I peel them off with a grimace and deliberate whether or not to toss them into the fire. I spot the Mudblood's still steaming bucket of water and decide to throw them in there to soak. Surely that would encompass the initial step of clothes-washing. What comes after is a mystery to me. I'm going to have to raid that damnable suitcase for fresh clothing. It was inevitable, but I've been putting it off.

Apparently she is still too distraught, on my behalf, to heed my subtle warning to stop talking to me. "You're lucky to be alive! Where did this happen?"

"About half a kilometre outside the last blue marker." I close my eyes and lean back against the chair.

_Go away. _

There is blessed silence. She has taken the hint. Or then again, perhaps not. "How did you get away?" she whispers.

My patience vanishes. "Isn't there something pointless yet time consuming you could be doing right now instead of hovering over me? I realize you are completely useless, but would you mind being useless somewhere else!"

Too late, I realize that I have raised my voice. This may seem like a trivial detail, but not to me. Damn her! In our limited time together, this will be the first occasion I have shouted. She could not comprehend that this is a significant victory over me.

Ask anyone who knows me. Ask Narcissa. Ask Draco. Ask any of the Aurors I've duelled, if you can find someone to speak to the dead.

I. Never. Shout.

Honestly, I could spring out of this chair and throttle her.

Her eyes fill with angry tears. She turns her face away, but I see them spill over her cheeks when she blinks.

And because I am God-cursed son of a bitch, all I seem to be able to think about is how her bath water ran down her naked body. "Is there anything to fucking eat?" I snap. There, she has me swearing in front of her now.

Her hand comes up and the tears are quickly swiped away. She clears her throat. When she speaks, her voice is strong and clear. "Yes, I opened two cans of peaches. There's also peas."

Peas. _Merlin_.

I walk to the stove, spoon out some warm slop into a cup and return to my chair to eat, like some troll returning to his dark corner under a bridge. What follows is a silence that is markedly louder than any argument. This is the kind of silence that makes the clinking of my spoon in my metal cup sound like it's been amplified by _sonorous_. She is a brave girl indeed to be the one to speak first. I have learned to expect no less from her.

"Malfoy, may I say something?"

What a contradiction this child is. A question as innocuous as that still cannot disguise the fact that she looks like she wants to run me through with a hot poker. I swallow a segment of slimy peach and give her no quarter. "I don't recall you feeling the need to ask my permission before."

She grits her teeth. I don't think she realizes her hands are forming claws at her side. Her curly hair almost crackles around her head from her annoyance. No wonder they never made this one an Auror. Her chronic inability to hide her feelings would be the death of her.

She takes in a deep breath and plunges on. "I don't think I ever really thanked you properly for stopping me from killing myself at the Revel."

I sip a drop of syrup from the pad of my thumb and then swirl my tongue around inside my mouth for a moment. "Don't flatter yourself. Or me, for that matter. The broken pitcher wouldn't have done the job. You would have simply ended up with a nasty, bleeding gash in your neck."

Her eyes had been on my thumb when I popped it out of my mouth. Now, they're trying to flay the skin from my body via a look of contempt. "Then please allow me to thank you for taking me from the Revel and making sure that I survived our arrival here." She seems pleased that she was able to get that out.

I stare at her for a moment. "What is this?"

"This is me saying thank you."

"Excellent. Are you done?"

Her eyebrows snap together. She really is fortunate they aren't as bushy as the hair on her head.

"I suppose I can't begin to realize how difficult this is for you. To have done what you did for me. I just wanted to tell you I _do_ appreciate it. And I know I haven't done all that much to make it easier for you since we got here."

That last bit wasn't sincere in the slightest. My mood improves. I am amused now as I stare at her. "Why are you telling me all this now? Are you afraid I'll change my mind and toss you out?"

The Mudblood measures her words very carefully. "As much as the thought may appeal to you, I judge that you won't."

I think she might have just read my mind. "And you trust your judgment all the time?" I inquire, one eyebrow lifting.

"Most of the time, yes," she nods.

I cross my legs, balancing my left leg across my right knee. "What is your sound judgment telling you now?"

"It's telling me you've just about had it. With hardly any food, no sleep and, um, well you've been looking after me." She goes red, at this point.

It's killing her to say all this to me. What's amazing is that she is making a valiant effort to _mean_ what she says. Because in Hermione Granger's world, meaning what you say counts for something. Not that it's working for her. She looks like she's been sucking on an entire box of earwax-flavoured, Bertie Botts beans.

And just like that, I think I could earn my Death Eater stripes all over again.

I allow my tone of voice to lose its recent chill. "There is something you could do, come to think of it."

"There is?" Clever girl. She is immediately suspicious.

"Yes. Something that would make my time here more…tolerable."

With a sigh, I look down at the last slice of peach in my cup. She follows my eyes. I can sense her relaxing slightly. She thinks it's going to be something to do with food.

"What is it?" she asks. I can sense her industrious little mind whirring through the frightening possibility of combining sardines and peaches.

I let a good two minutes elapse before I reply, staring her straight in the eye. "Have baths more often. The entertainment value alone was worth my near miss with the wolves."

Her response nearly makes me chuckle. She gasps, all feminine outrage and bulging eyes. "_You watched me_! You disgusting…you came back early and OH! What did you do, just stand outside the window and…OH!"

"I did not deliberately watch you, Granger. It was simply a matter of timing."

Lie.

Her huge eyes narrow into slits of suspicious condemnation. "_Were there even any wolves_?"

"The wolves are very real, I assure you. Speaking of which, you are not to go gallivanting into the forest like you usually do without me escorting you."

I am well aware of what she does when she venture into the nearby trees. And gallivanting is a generous term indeed for her embarrassed little trips. I doubt the wolves will approach this close to the cabin, but I cannot help further goading her anger by suggesting she needs me to watch over her when she uses the facilities.

"You can just go to hell, Malfoy."

"Believe me, I'm there, Miss Granger." And with that, I pop the last peach slice into my mouth.

"I can't believe you _watched_ me! You're disgusting!"

I swallow and regard her with undisguised amusement. "So you keep saying. _Now_ are you done thanking me for saving your life?" I remind her about the original purpose of her conversation and watch as her frustrated exasperation grows to nearly ignitable levels.

"Are there are more peaches?" I ask. They're not so bad, really. I suspect this is because they're not peas.

She frowns at the change in my mood. "There's more. They're not warm, though."

"They'll be fine."

I move to get them, but she steps forward and snatches the cup from my hand. "Sit, I'll do it."

There is the sound of a scraping spoon and then the _gloop_ of cold peaches sliding out of their jellied juice. She returns with two cups, and sits cross-legged on the floor, in front of the fire. This scene is not new.

We eat. These peaches are sweeter than the last batch.

"You make it very easy to hate you, Lucius."

She knows I dislike it when she uses my given name. This dulls the sense of well-being I have from being back in the comfort of the cabin, from the food and from our invigorating spat.

What does she know of hate? The girl only has a passing acquaintance with it. Her capacity for hate is limited. I doubt she even hates Voldemort.

Idly, I wonder what a person would have to do to make her truly hate.

We finish our meal in silence.


	9. Chapter 9

**-9-**

"Rise and shine, sleepy head."

He needed complicated hydraulics to peel his eyes open, thought Nikolai Illiev.

"Come on, wakey wakey," said a girl's voice.

Success. Through his blurred vision, Nikolai saw the rather disturbing image of Beatrice MacNair looming over him, sporting a wide, Cheshire Cat grin. Her long, chestnut-coloured hair tickled his nose. She was holding a gently steaming beaker. The careless way she held the beaker said that there wasn't much contained within.

He noted the foul taste in his mouth a sticky dampness over his chin and around his clavicles.

"Sorry if it tasted yucky. As of this morning, we are officially out of sugar."

"What did you just feed me?" Nikolai croaked. It wasn't unpleasant. At least his gullet felt more lubricated than the rest of him.

"A restorative potion. Welcome back to the land of the living."

Nikolai was flat on his back, on a narrow bed in the middle of a tiny room. Sunlight poured through tall, iron-grilled windows on either side of the bed. That was startling. The last time he'd had his eyes open, it'd been night. He tried to sit up and failed miserably. His vision swam and he felt Beatrice push him back down against the pillows.

"Steady on. You're still a little wobbly."

"Where am I?"

"My room," Beatrice informed, brightly. "And aren't I nice to let you sleep in my bed for almost a week now." She leaned down to whisper conspiratorially. "Father put me in Bellatrix's room instead. It's _much_ nicer there."

Nikolai discovered he was indeed 'wobbly'. Had he been ill? And Merlin, he really needed to use the lavatory. "I'm still at the castle? What happened? Why have I been asleep?"

Beatrice blinked at him. "You really don't remember, do you?"

He sat up, ignoring the horrible vertigo and Beatrice's hands fussing over him. The only reason she gave him the time of day was because there were so few Death Eaters their age. There was only Nikolai, Beatrice, her twin brother, Scion, Gregory Goyle and of course, Draco Malfoy.

Though you hardly ever saw Draco because his father had arranged for him to make as little a contribution as possible, as infrequently as possible. Goyle, meanwhile, was a thug and was used as such. He wasn't much for conversation and wasn't good with concepts more complex than bashing someone's head in and then running away in a titter. The MacNair twins were creepy the way a perpetually smiling Muggle clown is creepy. Everything was and well and good until the lights went out in your bedroom and it was just you and that…_grin_.

Dawn broke rather belatedly. All of a sudden Nikolai swung his head around to stare to Beatrice. "Did you say a _week_? I've been asleep for a whole week!"

She nodded. "You've been Petrified. And not just any old Petrificus either. This one had staying power."

He'd been just about to ask her what the hell she was talking about, when a deep voice interrupted at the open door.

"Beatrice! You were not to question the boy before we speak to him!"

Beatrice snapped to attention, all but jumping off the bed. "Sorry, Papa. I was bored. I never get to have any fun here."

"On account of my promising your late mother you'd survive to the age twenty-one, at least!" the voice admonished. "And where is your idiot brother, anyhow?"

"I don't know," she answered, sullenly, "doing idiot brother things?"

"Find him and make sure he's not being a bother to anyone, will you?"

"Yes, Papa."

Walden MacNair cast Nikolai a long-suffering look before shutting the door behind his daughter. There were no chairs in the room, so MacNair stood in front one of the windows, his large frame nearly blotting out the sunlight. This helped ease Nikolai's headache somewhat.

"You're alive, then?"

"Er, yes, sir. I believe so."

"Good," announced MacNair. "Illiev, we have a mystery to which I hope you can provide some answers."

Nikolai swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head throbbed. It felt like it was expanding and contracting at the same time. "I gather as much. Has something happened to Bellatrix?"

MacNair grunted. He noted the concern on the younger man's face. Nikolai was a great favourite of Bellatrix', almost as much as Draco Malfoy was.

"Tell me the last thing you remember about Wednesday night?"

Nikolai scrubbed a hand over the back of his head. "Roggering was disposing of one of the girls." His face screwed up into a grimace. "It was a mess. He was taking her out to, you know, the rose garden? He said she'd killed herself."

The two Death Eaters were silent for a moment as they pondered over Voldemort's rose garden. What a sweet name for such a sorry, evil place.

"Killed herself?" MacNair snorted. "How? By jumping repeatedly onto a pair of pruning shears? You saw what was left of the body."

Nikolai glared at the older Death Eater. "No, I didn't see the body. All I saw was Dieter carrying a bloody bundle. I had only just arrived at the Revel when I was instructed by our Master to go and fetch Bellatrix from the room. He was…displeased with her for some reason."

"Yes," MacNair confirmed, obviously knowing as much, "and what did you see when you arrived at the room?"

"I saw…"

Nikolai frowned. This was an easy question, wasn't it? The memory was there, only…only it wasn't.

He screwed his eyes shut, trying to locate the required mental snapshot in order to answer MacNair's question. There was nothing there. It was like turning to a blank page of a picture album. There was plenty of memory before and more memory accumulating with every breath, but nothing from the moment that particular door had swung open on the night of the Revel.

He strained, trying to filter out the foggy fingers that kept prodding the memory just out of reach. His headache had now progressed to epic proportions.

"Yes?" MacNair prompted. He didn't look surprised or put out by the fact that Nikolai was having problems remembering.

"Uh…I saw…I opened the door and… Damn it! Why can't I remember!"

"Alright, calm down, boy. You're going to burst a blood vessel. You don't remember because you were Obliviated."

"How do you know this, sir?"

MacNair rolled his eyes. "Well, you're still here, aren't you? You think two of the most dangerous Death Eaters alive would have left behind the only witness to their escape? You're lucky they didn't erase more than your memory!"

"_Who_ are you talking about?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange ran off with Lucius Malfoy the night they did this to you. They took our Master's hostage with them," MacNair calmly explained.

Nikolai's mouth fell open. MacNair didn't miss a beat. "Malfoy and Lestrange are missing, and Malfoy was the last one to have the Mudblood Granger in his possession. There is no other logical explanation save that the two of them decided to cash in their memberships and leave with a reward for their years of service."

"Where is Rodolphus?" Nikolai demanded. "What has he to say about this?"

"About Bellatrix?" MacNair laughed. "When has he ever had a thing to say about that woman's indiscretions?"

"That woman happens to be his wife! She is also our Master's most loyal servant!"

"Indeed?" MacNair said. "Then where is she, lad? If Malfoy acted alone, then _where is Bellatrix_? If Malfoy acted alone, Illiev, you'd be dead and buried by now. I'm willing to bet our dear Bellatrix had been about to abscond with Malfoy and their valuable bargaining chip when you turned up. And she couldn't possibly hurt a hair on _your_ head, could she? You're her little pet! You're the child she never allowed herself to have. Better to remove your memory and Petrify you."

Nikolai considered this. It was true that Bellatrix was probably the closest thing he had ever had to a mother. She had saved his life when he'd been a mere infant and had eventually brought him into the fold.

Granted she'd been absent during most of his formative years at Durmstrang, when she'd been imprisoned in Azkaban. After her escape, however, she had not abandoned him. Bellatrix had tracked him down, plucked him from obscurity to install him as a Death Eater, alongside her.

True, she wasn't the most stable Death Eater around, but was the rest of them any better? Hadn't she said exactly that to him? "_It's alright Niko. We are all damaged, in one way or another…"_

"If Lucius Malfoy is concerned, I wouldn't trust initial impressions," was all Nikolai said. He rose to his feet a little shakily and smoothed down his hopelessly wrinkled robes. No doubt an audience with Voldemort was imminent and it was wise to look somewhat presentable. "What is Draco doing about it?"

"Not much, as it happens. He claims to know nothing."

"Why am I not surprised?" Nikolai snorted. "I didn't think it was a possible to be a part-time Death Eater until I met Draco."

"No love lost between you two boys, I gather?"

Nikolai gave MacNair a quelling look. "I dislike the Malfoys, sir. Somehow I don't think this is anything unusual among our circle."

MacNair sighed. "Lucius' commitment to our cause has been unwavering. His enthusiasm however….let it simply be said that news of his defection was not met with much surprise. And yet, Lucius was not the one who took down the Wards before he and Bellatrix vanished. Only Bellatrix was trusted with the incantation," MacNair informed, almost triumphantly. He seemed to take genuine delight in crushing Nikolai's high opinion of Bellatrix.

Nikolai bristled. "Look, I know Malfoy can be a very persuasive man, but our Master entrusted the security of our precious Warding defences to Bellatrix for a _reason_. She is supposed to be in incorruptible!"

MacNair looked for a chink in that argument and found it. "As you said, Lucius can be persuasive."

"I don't believe this!" Nikolai spat.

"You don't have to," MacNair retorted. "It's unravelling all the same, whether you believe it or not."

The door swung open, then, and the stooped, silver-haired form of Augustus Rookwood appeared at the threshold. "MacNair, your daughter mentioned the boy is awake. Our Master wishes to see him. _Immediately._"

MacNair paled a little at this. "Of course. It was just that if there was going to be good news to relay to our Master, I would have liked it to come from me, not from the lad."

"And is there good news?" Rookwood asked.

The look on MacNair's face was answer enough.

"I see," Rookwood nodded, looking grave. "Our sources at the Ministry inform us that the girl has not been returned to them. Neither has there been any information regarding a planned exchange or ransom of any sort."

MacNair seemed to gather himself up, his large frame lifted a few inches. "Hell and damnation! Then what was the point of taking her in the first place?"

There was something in the quality of MacNair's exclamation that had both Rookwood and Nikolai staring at him oddly. MacNair purpled. He cleared his throat and stalked on ahead into the corridor. "Hurry up, then!" he commanded, flapping his meaty arms at them, "let's not keep him waiting!"

Nikolai obeyed; pale, angry, weak and not a little bewildered. He could feel a _Summoning_ coming on. There was nothing else for it. If Voldemort wanted answers from his people, he would have to call on _all_ of them.

The Dark Lord never Summoned his Death Eaters via their Marks unless it was a matter of life or death (the death usually being someone else's, invariably). Revels, however infrequently they occurred, ought to have been compulsory and yet Draco Malfoy had been allowed to sit out because a Summoning hadn't been issued for the event.

It was a sign of the times.

He scratched absently at the Dark Mark be-spelled onto his right forearm.

It didn't matter where you in the world or whom you owed your allegiance to. If you had ever been a Death Eater, then you had the Mark on your arm. And if you were crazy enough to refuse a Summoning, the resulting _pain_ was going to be indescribable.

* * *

Hermione watched with undisguised apprehension, as the small, netted bundle swayed overhead in the breeze. Against all expectations, Malfoy's trap had actually trapped….

Er, something?

They couldn't tell what it was because the previous day's blizzard had reduced the trap to a giant bag of snow. There wasn't any wriggling or screeching coming from inside the bag, though. She couldn't work out if she was relieved or slightly disappointed about this.

Malfoy was all business. He took his knife from its sheath and approached their quarry through the heavy snow.

After a week of steadfastly ignoring the presence of the mysterious suitcase, he had finally given in and changed his clothing. Not surprisingly, he picked the less colourful items, even if they weren't going to afford him the best possible protection from the cold. He had on two, long sleeved, flannel shirts in a dark plaid, and a pair of faded, black jeans, under his ubiquitous black wool cloak.

Lucius Malfoy in _jeans_. Now she really had seen everything.

The jeans were short on him, but he had tucked the bottoms into his boots, so you couldn't see that they ended a ridiculous three inches above his ankles. Hermione, meanwhile, was making do with the same lumpy jumper, corduroy trousers and homemade animal-hide boots. All in all, she decided their attire was rather eclectic.

All they needed was his flashy, silver-headed cane and they'd be riffraff 'royalty'.

The weather was actually nice that morning, having already vented its frustration for more than forty-eight hours. Being cooped up in the small cabin with Malfoy for the better part of two days was not actually boring. Boredom would have been preferable. To be bored, Hermione speculated that you first had to arrive at a relaxed and repetitive state to get sick of it in the first place. This was impossible to achieve with Lucius around. It wasn't that he was a jittery sort of person. He could not be accused of being high strung . Neither was he tense, exactly.

He was infuriatingly _contained_.

She watched him locate the tether, and track it back to the tree branch to which he had secured it. The knife moved; a swift flash of silver in the morning sunlight.

The bundle fell to the snow with a powdery _phwooof_ and there was palpable excitement as he brushed away the snow and unwrapped the makeshift netting.

If Hermione refrained from laughing, it was only because her mother had brought her up right.

He remained on his haunches, staring down at their trap.

"Well done, Malfoy. You've captured yourself a fine spruce branch."

Hermione had no idea if it was spruce. Oh, this was priceless. It was lovely to be on the delivery end of the insults that had been flying hard and fast between them since they got there.

"Did you say there was a second trap nearby?" she continued, gleefully. "Why, all we need now is some fir branches or a few acorns and we'd have a real meal."

All her amusement vanished when he finally looked up at her. He wasn't angry or baited by her sarcasm. He looked concerned. She felt instantly contrite. The lines of fatigue on his face seemed deeper today. Despite his efforts, which had very nearly cost him his life, the traps had not succeeded. It had taken time and precious energy for them to hike out to the clearing, in what they now knew as wolf-infested woods. And there was nothing to show for it.

"Er, it was good of you to try," she muttered.

He didn't speak, but instead began to re-set the trap using some of the food they're brought with them from the cabin. Hermione went to retrieve her snowshoes from where she'd left them, propped up against a tree. It was going to be a long walk back.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him suddenly bolt to his feet.

"Granger, watch your-"

He did mention the second trap, but he didn't mention its precise location. Hermione found it, after a fashion.

She put her foot down into what ought to have been fresh snow-cover, only the ground seemed firmer than usual. Her foot went through a nest of twigs, there was a sharp pain at her ankle and then the world was a dizzying flurry of white and sky-blue.

"Step," Malfoy finished.

Hermione hung upside down by her ankle, suspended from a groaning, tree branch. She swung like a pendulum, albeit a knobbly, woollen one. From the other side of the clearing, she saw him grinning.

"Impressive. I had no idea the net could hold that much weight."

Say what you want about Lucius Malfoy, he actually looked slightly human when he smiled, even when the smile was presented upside down. Alright, if she was to be brutally honest, he wasn't exactly horrible looking to begin with.

And the fact that he seemed to be physically able to smile (even if it was due to her misfortune) made him slightly less horrible looking than he already wasn't.

"Would you mind, terribly?" she snapped. "All my blood's going to my head!"

"You look like a beet," Malfoy confirmed, taking his sweet time to walk over to her. "If only you were edible." He brandished his knife once more and

Hermione knew he meant to slice the rope, but the sight of him bearing down on her with a blade made her blood freeze.

However, he paused before he reached her. To add to her confusion, he slipped his knife back in its sheath.

Hermione scowled at him. "No rush, Malfoy. _Really_."

He was looking up at where the rope was wrapped around her ankle. "Give it a few seconds," he said, with a smirk in his voice.

Three seconds, to be exact. Her furry boot came off. Or rather, she fell out of it.

Hermione landed, shoulder first into the snow. For once, she was thankful that it was there. The naked ground would not have been as forgiving. A few moments were spent dusting snow off of her backside and getting her bearings. After locating and then putting her boot back on, she stomped her cold foot a few times to get her circulation going again.

The results were surprising. The ground beneath her went _boing_. It felt, for lack of a better word, springy.

"Malfoy, will you come and take a look at this?" She bounced a few times to demonstrate.

He approached, taking new stock of the area and examining the spot with what she could only describe as a scholarly interest.

"Curious. This was exactly where the wolves backed off."

"And here I was thinking you scared them away with a look of contempt."

"Mmh," said Lucius. "Sadly, that only seems to work on young girls."

To her annoyance, Hermione felt her ears turn red, but he wasn't paying attention. He was squatting over the patch of springy ground.

"Help me move this snow."

Together, they shifted the snow. It took longer than expected as the oldest layers were made up of compacted, partially frozen dirt. Under this was a latticework of twigs and thin branches. To their combined amazement, there was a trap door at the bottom of their dig. It was large enough for an adult to fit through and was made of rusted, old iron with a padlock on the outside.

"What on earth is this?" Hermione whispered. She didn't expect an answer.

He provided one, anyway. "A secret."

Malfoy pulled off his gloves and ran his bare hands over and around the trapdoor. "Take your gloves off," he ordered, without looking at her.

Hermione felt a little chill pass over her. This was the Lucius she hadn't seen in a few days, the one who had pulled off the impossible-wandless Apparation-through his magical skill and the strength of his focus. This was the _wizard_, Lucius.

She complied, stripped off her gloves and was slightly startled when he took her hands and placed them on the freezing metal door. The iron was so cold, it stung her skin. She winced.

"There. What do you feel?"

Pain, she wanted to say, but that wasn't the reply he was after. She pushed the discomfort out of her mind and concentrated on looking for what he seemed to be _expecting_ her to notice.

It felt like a draft; a precise, constant, upward draft of air. She felt thin slivers of air rising up from the around the edges of the trapdoor. But there wasn't any air.

There wasn't even a breeze now. Her unbound hair wasn't moving. When she placed her cheek low, over where her hands had just been, she could feel nothing. What was it about hands that could detect this odd current?

"This door is magically sealed, isn't it?"

He was close enough that she could see the black flecks around his irises. She backed away, uncomfortable with their proximity. "You feel it then?" he inquired. "My hands aren't particularly sensitive at the moment, but I thought I detected a containment ward."

He wasn't exaggerating about his hands. His palms were chafed and raw. Hermione winced on his behalf.

"Yes, I feel it. Is that what it is, then? A containment ward? Out in the middle of nowhere?"

Malfoy was contemplating the nearby forest. "Only it's not exactly nowhere, is it? This clearing is the last, vacant section of land before the forest takes over. The nearest habitable location is the cabin. Perhaps this bunker belongs to the owners?" he speculated. "In any case, there is only one way to find out. _Move_."

She stared at him. "You're going to open it?"

"No, I'm going to put a potted plant on it. Yes, I'm going to open it."

Hermione moved to the side. "How?"

"Watch and learn. Or then again, given this is wandless magic, just _watch_."

After taking in a slow, deep breath, he shut his eyes and held out his hands over the trapdoor, palms facing downwards.

Nothing happened. After several minutes of silence, she couldn't help herself.

"What-"

"Quiet."

A minute later, there was the sudden hissing noise of compressed air escaping. This was followed by an almighty, metallic groaning. As Hermione watched, the heavy iron door seemed to impossibly expand upwards, before falling back into place. The padlock was still on, but Hermione could see that there was now a line of space and darkness around the edge of the door.

The sealing ward was broken.

Lucius opened his eyes and bent down to the padlock. He replied to her unspoken question. "The wards were very old and as such, exceedingly weak."

"What about the lock?"

"Alohomora," he breathed over it.

A simple spell. One she'd used often enough, but it still gave her a shiver to hear it. There was a quiet respect to how he used magic, something she could see was lacking in some of her peers.

The padlock sprang open.

Hermione wanted to say 'wow'. She _really_ did. But she held on to praise because, as predicted, Lucius looked pleased with himself.

He put his gloves back on and then using the blade of his axe, pried the trapdoor open. It shouldn't have lifted as easily and as soundlessly as it did, like it'd been oiled and primed, just for them. Hermione peeked into the silent darkness and then raised an eyebrow at him.

Lucius smiled at her. "Ladies first."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I know I'm going to get a lot of 'Lost' comments regarding the hatch :) The way the bodies decomposed was inspired by an episode of 'Eerie Indiana' (I think...or it might have been 'The Twilight Zone') I saw when I was kid - wherein this crazy 50s housewife had preserved her entire family by making them sleep in giant Tupperware containers at night. Inevitably, this one time she doesn't seal them in tightly enough and they end up aging overnight. That was the gist of it, anyway. That freaky scene stuck in my head.

-10-

_"Ladies first."_

She wasn't a founding member of Dumbledore's Army for nothing. At least that was what Hermione reminded herself. There was just something about lowering yourself into a dark, mysterious _hole_ in the ground that made you a tad nervous.

Understandably so, one would think.

Malfoy stood beside the open trap door, watching her with what she first thought was a challenging expression, but upon closer inspection, she could make out his underlying unease. All was not what it appeared to be in this desolate place. And in their line of work, the unknown could prove fatal.

There were rungs just below the hatch – an iron ladder descending into darkness. Hermione made her way down cautiously, taking care with her footing on the icy metal. She paused at the bottom rung, sniffing tentatively at air that didn't smell old and damp like she'd expected. It smelled…exactly like the outside, actually. It was as if the air inside the bunker and been sucked out, displaced by the crisp, cold air aboveground.

Even as she thought this, she thought she could now detect a definite unpleasantness to the smell.

Lucius' pensive face appeared under the square-shaped bit of blue sky. She glanced up at him, shielding her eyes from the glare over his head. Backlit by the bright morning, his hair was an intense shade of sunlight. Dare she say? It was positively halo-ic.

Hermione suppressed a snort.  
"Pay attention," he snapped. "If you fall and break your ankle-"

"Yes, yes. You're not carrying me back. I got that memo last week," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

With some relief, she finally placed both feet on solid ground and had a quick look around inside the bunker. Sunshine spilled past the open trap door, casting a column of light wherein dust motes floated into view. The light did not penetrate the deeper gloom.

"It's dark," she called out to him. "I can't see a thing."

The odd smell was getting stronger. It had started off unpleasant, but was quickly crossing over into 'bad.' She put it out of her mind as Malfoy came down the ladder after her, forgoing the last three rungs to land directly beside her with a soft thump. The ends of his long hair brushed against her cheek. In the still, sheltered space, she caught the scent of his musty, borrowed clothes and that other smell that was just him. It bothered her that she could now say it was familiar.

"Lumos."

A small ball of light flared in his right palm. As still as the air currently was, it looked like it was trying to exist in a gale; the light sputtered and extinguished and came back to life. Hermione quashed the urge to cup her hands over his palm to shield the fragile flame from invisible wind.

"We'll have to be quick. I cannot sustain this for very long."

She heard him, but was too distracted to pay attention now that she could see what was contained within the bunker. Her mouth hung open slightly at what they had inadvertently discovered.

There was a large woven rug covering most of the floor, the pattern nearly identical to the one in the cabin. In one corner was a lopsided futon that looked like it'd been put together by an inexpert carpenter. It was piled up high with blankets and pillows. Next to the futon was a wicker bassinette, draped with delicate lace. Almost every spare inch of available space was taken up by boxes of canned food. There were the ever-present peas and peaches, but also corned beef, more sardines in aspic, trout in tomato sauce, canned legumes of every description and the original miracle meat, SPAM.

"Jackpot," breathed Hermione.

They shared a brief moment of stunned silence. Well, you couldn't tell if Malfoy was stunned from looking at him. He didn't utter so much as an "Oh my." At the moment he was doing his impression of a contemplative, concrete pillar.

Hermione practically grabbed a box of SPAM and _hugged_ it. With an almost childlike glee, she applied herself to the task of identifying all the boxed food. "Look at this!" she cried, holding on to a tin of pear slices like it was the cure for mortality. "To think this has been here all along!"

Her exuberance was not contagious. Lucius edged around her with his flickering ball of light. He seemed intent to explore the remainder of the narrow bunker before ripping open the boxes and stuffing his face. Hermione had no such qualms. She was a natural multi-tasker and would attempt to eat while she explored, provided she could get a can open with nothing but ecstatic desperation and hopefulness.

And all this while, the unpleasant smell increased. It was the greasy, organic, eye-watering smell of decomposition. Most people had experienced this unpleasantness in the form of roadkill, a dead cat or dog, raccoon or possum caught in the roof. At the back of her mind, she readied herself for the discovery of a small, decomposing something or other, trapped inside the bunker, like the remains of the mice she had found under the piled firewood in the cabin.

Hermione examined a tall stack of boxes directly to her left. She noted the canned fruit that made up four boxes, but the fifth, at the top, made her stop and gasp.

Lucius turned around sharply. "What?"

She ripped into the box, sending paper and cardboard flying. When she answered him, it was through a mouth full of food.

"_Shawcolate!_"

Remarkably, it was as good as new. She remembered reading somewhere that if packaged properly, chocolate--like honey--could last indefinitely. All she knew was that it tasted better than anything she had ever eaten before. Hermione broke the block in half and held the rest of it out to Malfoy with an expression of rapture. "Oh my God," she said, and then swallowed. "You _have_ to try this."

"Later," he replied, narrowing his eyes.

She took that to mean he was put off by her gorging. "Your self-control is unholy," she muttered. Bugger him. She licked her sticky fingers and sighed with pleasure. Only some of her happiness had dents kicked into it by the horrid smell, which had now progressed to a bona fide _stench_.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Where on earth is that coming from?" She put her wrist under her traumatized nose.

Lucius was looking over the top of her head. He looked inquisitive for a moment, and then he looked grave. "Step aside."

She did, with great trepidation. With the box of chocolates removed from the top of the tall stack behind her, a small, low alcove was revealed at the opposite end of the bunker.

There, on a pile of blankets, lay a pair of corpses; a man and a woman huddled together. Hermione probably would have screamed (in her defence it would have only been a _mild_ scream) had her mouth not been full of chocolate at the time.

The discovery was grisly, but it soon took on a nightmarish flavor. It was like something out of a horror movie.

Even as they watched, the bodies _changed_. Flesh that was pale turned to darkening purple and yellow and began puffing up slightly. They were witnessing accelerated decomposition. Eyelids shrunk back from the expansion of the putrefying flesh, exposing eyeballs that bulged in an expression of vacant horror. The man's mouth fell open and his swollen, purple tongue lolled out.

Hermione dropped her chocolate and backed away until she felt Lucius behind her. With his free hand, he grasped her upper arm lightly and directed her to the side. She watched as he approached the corpses. To her cringing dismay, he grabbed hold of the dead woman's legs and pulled off her boots.

Malfoy tossed them to her after a cursory examination. "These look to be your size."

Hermione automatically caught the footwear. Only Lucius Malfoy would be sensible enough to strip a decomposing body for useful items. Trust _him_ not to be squeamish. Luckily, too. By the time it might have occurred to Hermione to take the shoes or any clothing, the rapid decomposition of the bodies would have rendered the items a tad…sticky.

They could do nothing more, but stand there and watch the bizarre spectacle unfold. The bodies progressed past bloating. Now the flesh was breaking down at a phenomenal rate. Soon, it became impossible to tell the man from the woman, if it wasn't for the woman's long, black hair. Bits of flesh fell from bone. The bodies eventually slumped to the ground, falling away from each other. There was an expanding patch of wetness, spreading away from the corpses - virulent fluids from their decomposition soaked the blankets on the floor. It was just as well her stomach was empty, thought Hermione. She covered her mouth and gagged once or twice, but there was no follow through.

Within minutes, Hermione and Malfoy were staring at a couple of withered, leathery corpses. He bent down to the remains, heedless of the sticky mess or the smell, and picked up a gold locket on a chain around the woman's neck. He flicked it open to look at its contents briefly, before pocketing it. The dead man's watch went the same way. Hermione didn't think he was actually grave robbing, but she was still a little too disturbed from what she had just seen to ask him about the items just yet.

Hermione hugged herself. "What in world did we just witness?"

"The aftermath of an elaborate kill, I believe," said Lucius.  
His wandless Lumos extinguished for the space of several heartbeats and in that brief moment of darkness, Hermione felt her flesh crawl. She was relieved when he brought the light back, though it was weaker this time. The muted golden glow illuminated the lines and hollows of his face.

Murder? Yes, she could believe that. Nothing of what they had just seen screamed 'natural causes.' And the seal was on the _outside_ of the bunker, she reminded herself. She processed all the available information before she next spoke.

"They were trapped down here. Someone used magic to seal them in from the outside."

Lucius gave her an assessing look. "And the rapid decomposition?" She realized she was being tested.

"The seal cut off the air and kept the outside at bay, which turned this place into a hermetically sealed tomb. When we opened the hatch, the seal broke and time came back in a rush." It wasn't an original theory. Powerful sealing wards were commonly used household spells. Many magical folk used them in place of Tupperware.

He was impressed with her deduction. She saw it, however fleetingly that expression stayed on his face.

"Have you seen this before?" It was a fair question. She surmised that he'd seen _a lot_.

"Only once." He touched one of the cardboard boxes. "And the effect was nowhere near this dramatic. If I am not mistaken, some of the food will have spoiled as well."

Hermione hastily located the chocolate bar she had dropped. As he predicted, the perfect milk chocolate was now brittle, white and powdery. It fairly crumbled when she picked it up. Her expression of grief must have been a little comical, because she caught his brief, amused look.  
"Please don't tell me we've just lost all our food?"

He retrieved a can from inside one of the boxes she had opened earlier and Hermione now noted the new corrosion around the edges. All the cans she had inspected minutes earlier had been in pristine condition.

"Anything in here that was meant to last twenty years should still be fine to consume."

She sighed. "With our luck, that's going to amount to peas and peaches."

"Fate could not possibly be _that_ cruel," he said, looking mildly disturbed. "Not even to _me_."

Hermione could not contain her small smile at his tone. "How do you know it's been twenty years?"

In reply, Malfoy showed her the watch he had taken from the dead man's wrist. It was a plain, silver-plated wind up specimen, with a small slot for the date. She squinted down at it, in the low light. The watch had apparently stopped functioning at twelve-thirty on May the fifth, 1980.

Twenty-years, more or less. Unless of course the watch had continued on its own steam for a little while after its owner had expired.

"Could you tell how they died?"

He shrugged. "However it happened, their death did not apparently leave any lasting damage that caused significant blood loss. My guess would be suffocation." He looked thoughtful through this macabre explanation. "Or perhaps Avada Kedrava."

"Magical death," she whispered. And then her eyes widened. She clutched at his forearm with a gasp. It was a habit Ron and Harry would have described as vintage Hermione. "_Wands_! Malfoy, they might have wands on them!"

Malfoy's gaze cooled slightly. He peeled her chocolate-sticky hands away from his arm. "Unhappily, they do not."

"Oh. You checked?"

"I did. Not that I expected to find any. Think, Mudblood. Had they wands, likely they would not have died here."

She bristled at his use of the dreaded 'M' word. He'd refrained from calling her by it for the past two days. Hermione supposed it was too much to hope that he's retired the word indefinitely. "If it was Avada Kedavra, then they were killed first and then sealed in."

He considered this at length. "I assumed that at first, but I may have to reassess that assumption."

She worried at her lower lip. "It's because of their placement, isn't it? They were holding on to each other, which wouldn't be a natural position for two bodies to fall into, unless they were arranged that way."

"True," he allowed and Hermione was struck by the realization that there were actually theorizing cooperatively.

"In any case, there should be an easy enough way to tell…" He walked away to investigate the underside of the hatch.

Hermione joined him at the ladder, inspecting the spots he pointed out to her. There were hacking marks around the hatch opening, great gouges scratched into the metal. Littered around the base of the ladder were bent and warped bits of cutlery, a broken screwdriver and two knife blades that had snapped free of their handles. Upon closer inspection of the debris on the floor, Hermione could make out splinters of wood and small chunks of cement that looked like they'd been blasted off the beams and walls.

She ran her fingers along a deep, gaping hole in the concrete beside the hatch. There were similar, circular dents in the metal. If she had to hazard a guess, it looked like Reducto, only more precise. Whatever it was, it'd been powerful. Though still not strong enough to blow open the iron hatch.

The euphoria from the discovery of the food was all but gone. "This is a crime scene. We really shouldn't be touching anything." She wasn't _telling_ him. She was just verbalizing her thoughts.

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Starting with that kilo of chocolate you devoured earlier?"

She sniffed. "This-" she said, holding aloft the powdery remains of her block of chocolate "-is a matter of survival."

"If I'm not mistaken, most women feel that way about chocolate," he responded dryly. He brushed past her to resume his inspection of the rest of the bunker.

If Hermione didn't know any better, she'd say she was being teased. "If these poor people were locked in here alive, they can't have starved to death with all this food around."

"No," Lucius concurred. "More likely they suffocated because of the sealing ward. It would have taken a while, though. Two adults in a room this size…"

They seemed to remember the bassinette at the exact same time. He glanced at it and she felt, rather than saw his dread.

_Not so tough after all, huh, Malfoy?_

It was a small, but welcomed revelation in the midst of a god-awful moment.

This was all the encouragement Hermione needed to walk over to the cradle and lift the lace that covered it. She knew it was impossible to steel her heart against what she thought she might see in that small, soft little bed. But she would try, all the same.

Thank God. It was empty. She moved to show him. There was a tiny, blue and white rag teddy, but no baby.

Somehow, the empty cradle didn't bring as much relief as it should have. She could tell Malfoy was feeling it too. No doubt he recalled the suitcase they had found in the cabin, with the orphaned items of babies' clothing.

"Something really awful happened here," said Hermione, quietly.

A quick search of the remainder of the tiny bunker did not, thankfully, turn up any tiny remains. If there had been a baby, it had not died there with its parents. Or at least, she assumed the couple was its parents.

They found other useful items. There was certainly no shortage of bedding. In addition, there was more clothing in a small trunk. Like the clothing in the suitcase, most of the men's garments were too small for Lucius, so they were given to Hermione instead. The woman had kept a selection of serviceable jumpers, some thermal underwear and a brassiere which Hermione could tell on sight was too small for her. Socks would not be a problem – there were at least a dozen pairs. There was an abundance of babies' clothing. A boy, apparently, as most of the items featured blue in some way. The type of clothing did not constitute well-thought out packing. It looked like whomever had intended to wear the items had been in a hurry, tossing whatever they could into the trunk and the suitcase back at the cabin.

At the bottom of the trunk was a hard-shelled cosmetics' case with toiletries, creams and lotions (a quick sniff proved that they were all well past their use-by date), some toothpaste which had turned solid, shaving apparatus, hard soap and a small, sewing kit. There was also a glass baby bottle, several teats and a glass phial of some clear liquid that smelled faintly alcoholic and sweet. Hermione wondered if it had been a homemade version of Gripe Water, once upon a time.

With the exception of the phial, Hermione piled all these items into the middle of a blanket and tied it off to form a sack. Malfoy, meanwhile, was busy taking cans out of boxes.

"We won't be able to bring all that back with us in one trip," he said, without turning to look at what she was doing.

Hermione stared down at her load. He was right. There was no way she could carry it all. She re-prioritized and packed only the essentials, even if everything she was currently looking at seemed necessary to life. A hairbrush was one such item. When she finally shut the half-empty trunk, she noticed a long bundle of rolled up cloth behind it.

When she unfurled it and looked down at the contents, Hermione realized she had solved the mystery of the damage under the hatch. Reducto had been a good guess, but incorrect.

The marks in the ceiling were the result of gunfire. A rifle, to be exact. The couple had tried to blast their way out of the bunker. Hermione glanced up to see what Malfoy was doing. He was occupied piling a selection of food into an empty box. She turned her attention back to the rifle, thinking how funny it was that skills she never thought would ever come in handy, could potentially save the day now.

She picked up the rifle and after a moment's examination, unlocked the bolt and exposed the breech. The movement was heavy because the gun was in dire need of a good cleaning. There was a spent shell casing inside the barrel, which Hermione removed and discarded. She shut the bolt, an action that automatically cocked the firing pin. The loud, metallic scraping sound was not promising.

Lucius predictably appeared beside her, eyeing the gun. She couldn't tell if he was familiar with it or not.

"It's a rifle," she informed. "From the damage around the hatch, I think at one point they tried to shoot their way out of here."

Malfoy was still taking the gun apart with his eyes. "A rifle is different from a pistol." It was a question without a question mark, because Lucius Malfoy would not willingly confess to knowing less about something than her, even if it was something Mugglish.

"Pistols are smaller, easier to conceal," Hermione replied. "You don't hunt with them."

"But you hunt with rifles?" He looked at the gun with growing interest.

Hermione responded by holding on to it a little more tightly. "Yes."

"Noisy and inefficient weapons, at best."

It was absurd to feel defensive over a Muggle invention that had caused so much misery. Compared to a wand, there was obviously no contest. But Hermione was defensive all the same.

"Well, yes, if you call a piece of hot lead tearing into you 'inefficient'."

His gave her a long, speculative stare. "How do you know about guns? I don't suppose most Muggles keep them in their homes."

"They don't. Not in Britain, at any rate. I have cousins who live in the country. One of them is a competitive sheet shooter. I spent a few summers with her."

"Ah, and I presume from your reaction to the demise of our two bird friends, that this 'skeet' was not skinned and cooked afterwards?"

Now she was definitely being teased. Hermione thought she might be getting used to Malfoy's particular brand of dry humour. The comment was heavily doused with sarcasm, but it was humour nonetheless. What else had she to learn about him? For all she knew, he played the ukulele in his spare time.

"Skeets are clay pigeons," she explained, on the hundred to one chance he was actually being serious. "They're tossed into the air and shot at for sport."

"How droll. And this rifle. It requires…" He searched for the word. "Projectiles to function, does it not?"

"Shells," she clarified. "I found two boxes with the rifle. But I don't think this will fire anything before a thorough cleaning." She demonstrated by pulling back the bolt again to show him how stiff it was."

"Then you will clean it when we return to the cabin."

"I have every intention to," she responded, with forced brightness.

"Good. " He held out his hand. "Now give me the gun. In addition, I will carry the food and the bedding. You can take the clothing."

"That's alright. I'll manage." Hermione wrapped her hand around the rifle's cracked leather strap. Belatedly, she realized the nozzle was pointing at his head and immediately lowered it.

Too late. He noticed.

"Not thinking of sending me off, are you, Mudblood?" He advanced on her. "Give it to me."

"Might do, if you keep calling me that," said Hermione, through gritted teeth. "And I think I'll hang on to this, if it's all the same to you." She couldn't tell if he was concerned that she now had a weapon that she _alone_ knew how to use against him, or if he was just being a controlling arsehole.

It was probably the latter.

Undaunted, Malfoy walked towards her until the rifle's nozzle parted the fold in his clock and butted into his flannel-covered abdomen, which she couldn't help but note was very hard. No squishy, pushy bits.

"But it's not all the same to me, Mudblood. Now, I did _ask_ you for the gun. We both know I don't have to ask."

The rifle wasn't loaded and even then, it probably wouldn't even fire in its current state. But he wasn't to know that. She braced it against her hip took aim.

"Back off, Malfoy."

"Or you'll shoot me, will you?" he asked, almost tenderly. It was his soft, scary, 'persuasive' voice.

"You're daring me?" she scoffed. Maybe he didn't understand how guns worked? "If I pull the trigger at this range, it'll blow a hole clean through your middle, Malfoy."

"Oh?" he said, sounding unconcerned. "And which part is the trigger?"

To her consternation, he gripped the end of the nozzle in his leather-gloved fist and forced it upwards towards his chest. The butt of the rifle slid across her hip and rode down her belly, coming to a rest at the delta of her trousers. He gave it a little push, and it slid between her legs, at a particularly _effective_ angle. She could feel it well enough through her trousers. Her heart began hammering a familiar percussion of expectant anxiety.

He held the rifle still, increasing the upward pressure ever so slightly. And then he slid his gloved fist down the shaft with complete nonchalance, as if he was merely learning the tactile characteristics of the rifle.

She knew he was watching her face, savouring her rising panic

Hermione found she could not look away from his hand's maddeningly slow progress down the shaft of the gun. There wasn't any room to move back. He wanted her to shove the gun away and relinquish it to him.

Sod him and his little power trips. _No_.

Blood was rushing to her face. Was he being deliberately suggestive or was he just….um.

_What, Hermione? Wanking a gun?_

By now she was nearly straddling the blasted thing. Hermione held her breath when he got to the trigger, his long fingers a hair's breath away from the zip fly of her trousers. She snatched her hand away before he could reach the trigger and possibly touch her.

And just like that, the gun was his. Malfoy neatly plucked the rifle from her grasp and slung it over his shoulder. Hermione blinked at the sudden return of winter.

With the gun safely in his possession, he gripped the neckline of her jumper in his left hand and hauled her to him so roughly she thought she suffered whiplash. "Don't you _ever_ hold a weapon against me, Mudblood," he sneered into her face. "_Especially_ when you don't intend to follow through."

She couldn't shrink back and lapse into meekness when he was holding her like this. He effectively forced a retort out of her from sheer proximity. "So what then? I should have _shot_ you?"

He snorted. "If you had that kind of fortitude, we would not be in this position in the first place. We would have left the Revel undetected."

Ah. He was referring to how she had alerted Bellatrix to their presence. She wondered when he was going to bring that up that folly.

"What you said applies to you as well," Hermione replied. Her voice quavered. She could feel the entire hard, immovable length of him pressed up flush against her body. "If you had any real fortitude of your own, Malfoy, you wouldn't have ended up Voldemort's failed servant."

She'd gone and done it now. Yes, there had been some level of camaraderie in the past two days, but she had just obliterated whatever accord they had established with that statement.

Oh God, he was going to hit her. The feeble lumos in his right hand disappeared and they were plunged into near darkness once again. She could feel his free hand rise, balled tightly into a fist as it brushed past her body and joined the hand that was holding her to him by her jumper. He shook her once. This may have started out as an exercise for him to vent some frustration, but now he looked like he wanted to rip her apart. She was close enough to feel his ragged, angry breathing.

_"You…"_ he seethed.

And then he released her. Hermione scrambled away from him, watching warily as he glared at the ground, just above the toes of his boots. His lips moved. She thought he might be counting.

The silence was colder than the weather, on their walk back to the cabin. Malfoy didn't turn back to look at her once, not when she fell, not when she failed to keep pace and lagged behind. Had she fallen off the edge of a precipice and screamed all the way to her death, he would have just kept on going. He was furious, but not just with her. This was about more than just them. Hermione could see that. It was as plain as day.

The loss of the gun chafed. He had the axe, his knife, the stupid fireplace poker that he used for roasting. He had claimed the cabin's only armchair and this was in addition to strutting around the cabin like he owned the place. He had all this…this… _intimidating power_. He couldn't help that he was bigger and stronger than she was, but Hermione thought she could at least even out the odds with the old rifle in her possession. She wasn't a bad shot either.

Being helpless was not a happy feeling.

Oh yes, it was a perfect example of how twisted their situation was that she, Hermione Granger, felt possessive over a bloody _gun_. She hated guns. At the moment, what she hated most about this particular gun was the way Malfoy walked back to the cabin with it slung across his shoulder.

Like he had a right to own it and use it.

She suspected he felt the same way about her and wands.

* * *

**End Notes:**

Lucius gets his comeuppance in the next chapter, guys. Hang in there. Hermione's not a pushover, she's just doing what she needs to do to surivive with a self-confessed murderer and escaped criminal.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Sorry this took so long. Muse is back. Kinda.

* * *

**-11-**

Death or something like it came to collect at precisely ten-thirty that evening, two days after our grisly (and fortuitous) discovery of the hidden bunker in the woods. It is testament to how dire our situation is that we were lulled into contentment for two days.

Two days. Because of SPAM.

I shall _never _live this down.

I will also forever regret reading the peeling, faded label of the first tin we opened. So many unpronounceable Muggle additives designed to preserve this hellish rendition of 'meat'. It ought to be impossible, but SPAM is _worse _than Diagon Alley alfresco sausage. At least the latter is cooked fresh, even if it does contain ears, hooves, tail and whatever part of whichever animal happens to come in small, white tubular structures.

So we gorged ourselves on SPAM and were sated. Sated enough that there was an effective truce-if not an accord-for forty-eight hours. As of several minutes ago, I had been feeling quite full and rested. Sadly, my respite was fleeting.

I double over, bracing one palm against the floor while the other makes a fist in the rug. Nothing will help. I know this because the Summons is designed to feel this way if you are foolish enough to not answer it. Or unfortunate enough to be in a position where you are unable to answer it. The pain is both incentive and punishment and it is so very effective.

At first I was resigned, because I bloody well _knew _a Summoning was coming and had steadfastly avoided thinking about it. And then I was enraged because here was yet another hardship I would have to endure because of Hermione Granger.

I contemplated bludgeoning her to death with her newly acquired boots. But ah, then I would not be able to demand a demonstration of the...what was it called? A _rifle_. She spent some time yesterday studiously cleaning the thing. I took the weapon back after it was rendered gleaming from her efforts. The weather has been too foul to venture outdoors for any large stretch of time. I aim to learn the rifle's workings when this latest blizzard ceases.

If I survive this latest hell, of course.

_Merlin_. Another fresh wave of pain hits me, like molten rock licking down from the Mark inside of my left forearm, coursing through to the rest of my body. This is so much like Cruciatus and yet...different. Cruciatus is mindless agony. You lose all concept of time under it. _This _is concentrated; directed, around that damnable Mark and I know precisely what is happening and am acutely aware of each minute that passes.

I felt the stirring, the tingle under my skin that was the precursor to Voldemort beginning the incantation. And then there is a kind of pulse; a neutral surge of magic. Fittingly, the pain does not actually begin until my former colleagues commence their Apparation to the Dark Lord's side.

The first pain brought me to my knees. The next sent me to the ground, and it will get much worse before it gets better. A few more hours of this torture and I likely will actually consider going to him had I a wand.

Shaking and drenched in sweat, I peel off my soaking shirt and kneel before the fire. I might as well be standing in it, because the agony makes me wonder if I'm being roasted alive. I do not make a sound, however. The Mudblood lies a short distance away, occupied with the dreamless sleep of ignorance.

I put my head on my knees and rock. This will be the second and longest time I have ever endured an ignored Summoning and there will be no relief on this occasion. No remedy that had been on hand the last time.

I wonder if the pain will kill me. I know of others who have ended their lives from it, but none who have actually _died _as a direct result. If I see the next sunrise, I'll remind myself to write down my experience somewhere, for posterity.

More pain now. It is quite marvellous, this pain. Nearly a beautiful thing to be able to feel something this pure after so many years of contrived, manufactured emotion.

So much for not making any noise. I do believe it is _I _who am making that awful racket...

* * *

Hermione sat upright. Something was wrong. It was dark and freezing in the cabin, which was highly irregular given the intensity of Dragonfire. She turned to the fireplace, still blinking sleep from her eyes.

Good lord, the fire was nearly extinguished. There was a great big pile of ash and a few smouldering embers. She rushed forward, forcing herself to calm her panic as she gingerly feed the embers, not daring to even breathe until the new bits of kindling and wood erupted into healthy flame. After this, she tossed in large chunks of firewood until she was satisfied the fire was in no further danger of being snuffed out from lack of tending.

It was then that she noticed Malfoy was gone. The cabin door was ajar and winter had sneaked inside.

She found him in the snow.

It didn't take long. All she had to do was follow the sound of the screaming.

* * *

She found Malfoy a short distance from the cabin with his left arm plunged shoulder-deep into the snow. Getting him back inside the cabin had been tricky, seeing as he chose to faint roughly several meters outside the front door.

He was no garden gnome. It took her every bit of strength she possessed and quite a bit of swearing to drag him back inside the warmth of the cabin. An insensate person was a hundred times harder to move than one who had some of his faculties about him. Once inside, Hermione shut the door against the deadly wind and paused to catch her breath.

And then she attempted to understand what in God's name had happened.

Malfoy was awake again, after a fashion, and was huddled over on the rug in the foetal position, shaking violently and holding his left arm against his chest.

Was he sick? It looked like he was injured. Could you actually overdose on SPAM? She approached cautiously.

"Malfoy?" Hermione began, attempting to unfurl him.

He was saying something, fast and low. She couldn't make it out. Trying to quash her nervousness, Hermione bent her head down to him, flattening her palms on either side of his face so she could get a proper look at him. She was so stunned by the incredible heat of his body that she nearly dropped his head.

"What in world is happening to you?"

His eyes opened. Widely dilated pupils rendered them nearly black.

"Malfoy?"

"Sss-summmons."

Hermione frowned, not understanding. "You mean a Summoning Spell? That's what's happening? Did you try to Summon something wandlessly?"

He swallowed, shut his eyes and for a moment the shaking progressed to what looked like a seizure.

Terribly alarmed, all Hermione could do was hold his head in her lap to try to prevent him from banging it against the floor. And then, just as suddenly, Malfoy went still. He wasn't dead, judging from his long, drawn-out groan.

His eyes opened. They were unfocussed, but this time Hermione was able to make out more grey than black. She stared down at him in acute concern while he blinked up at her. She was belatedly aware that she had his right cheek effectively pressed into her bosom. Now was not the time for maidenly sensibilities.

Or maybe it was.

"Move away," he said, listlessly.

She obliged, rising to her feet. Malfoy propped himself up on his elbows and scowled up at her. Nothing was said for a minute or two. She thought he might have some difficulty gathering his wits.

"Are you alright?"

"No," he snapped. He inched backwards until his back met the western wall of the cabin and there he stayed. He looked positively depleted.

"What in the bloody hell was _that _all about? You could have died out there," she said, hand on her hip.

Malfoy sucked in a long, ragged breath. He regarded her for a moment from under lowered eyelids. "Water."

'Water' only had the two syllables, but there seemed to be a pronounced 'please' buried somewhere in that word. He sounded very vulnerable and perhaps _that _was what was killing him, she decided, with a mental snort. She hurried to their water supply, filled the metal beaker and brought it back to him.

His hands shook so much that she had to hold the cup for him to drink. When he was done, she made to move away, but he stopped her.

"Wait," he whispered, catching her wrist. His grip was loose and clammy. "Observe." He held out his Marked arm and then poured the last remaining drops of water in the beaker over it.

To Hermione's amazement, the little droplets danced and spat over the black Mark before hissing into steam. "Oh my goodness…" She stared at him. "Please explain."

"I have been Summoned by my former master. The Mark responds as you have just witnessed," Malfoy whispered.

Hermione's brain jostled the pieces of the puzzle into the only picture that made sense. "And you cannot answer the Summons," she concluded grimly. "This is the price you pay, then? Terrible pain? The heat?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes closing. "It feels as it looks - as though I am being cooked from the inside."

Hermione was aghast. "Was that the end of it, then?"

He shook his head, his eyes were still shut, but a manic smile stretched across his face. "No. This is the...intermission."

"Dear God, how much more will you have to endure?"

"There is a dose of concentrated pain for every loyal servant that appears at the Dark Lord's side, wherever he may be. I count fourteen so far." His brow furrowed. "Correction. Fifteen."

Hermione didn't think Malfoy realised he had a death grip over her hand. "And pray tell how many Death Eaters are likely to attend this Summons?"

"Twenty."

Hermione swallowed. "I hate to break it to you, but I don't think you're going to survive five more seizures of that magnitude."

He licked his lips and finally opened his eyes. Some of his usual vigour had returned, though it was still more mania than anything. "Pro'lly not." There was almost a challenging gleam there. "Would you miss me, Mudblood?"

She ignored that, though the return of his usual lasciviousness was slightly reassuring. "There has to be something we can do!"

"There is no remedy, only-"

"Yes? Only what?"

But he wasn't able to tell her because it happened all over again. It was horrendous. Hermione sat beside him as he twitched and shuddered. At several points, he attempted to claw at his Marked arm and she resorted to sitting on him to thwart his attempts at self-harm. When it was over, he lay on his side, breathing raggedly. She allowed him a minute to recover, but didn't dare let him sleep because she had no idea how long the latest 'intermission' was going to last.

He was fading. Steeling herself, Hermione brought her hand around and smacked him across the face. The sound of the slap made her cringe. He did not respond. She moved her hand again and this time, he caught her wrist and squeezed to the point where she felt the bones of her wrist shift.

She winced. "Welcome back."

"Little bitch," he hissed, though without much gusto.

"Listen to me, Malfoy, I am _not _going to have to drag your sorry carcass out into the snow to bury you. "

He appeared to consider this. "Leave it to the wolves, then."

"Might do," she said, "only that would be cruelty to animals."

The ridiculous turn in conversation managed to snap him out of his delirium somewhat. He was slightly more serious now. "There is nothing you can do. I am going to die."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Bloody melodramatic Malfoys. You're worse than your son! Now, are you going to tell me what this mysterious cure is or not?"

He stared at her, looking contemplative despite his obvious exhaustion. His answer was a raspy request for her to come closer. Hermione leaned down such that her ear was close to his mouth. "Yes? What is it?"

"You are quite fine, you realise? Finer than you should be, than you have a right to be." He shifted and his nose bumped alongside hers. "For a sodding Mudblood."

Now it was her turn to be confounded. She stiffened and it took some willpower not to move away. His breath ought to have burned, because of the great heat emanating from him, but it was cool and clean against her cheek.

"Lucius," she said, more gently this time. "We don't have time. Tell me what I need to know."

He was slipping into unconsciousness again. There was nothing for it. She slapped him across the face a second time. His eyes snapped open and he glared at her. It wasn't him behind his eyes, thought. He was lost in delirium.

"Malfoy, for the love of-"

"My name," he precisely enunciated, so precise that she it felt like he was cutting it into the air, "is _Magic_ and shall _not_ pass your lips," he hissed. "_You _do not have a right to it."

"Be a bigoted arsehole later, right now I need you to tell me how to stop this from slowly killing you! What do I need to do to help you?"

"You cannot help me."

"Why? Because this requires magic?"

He snorted. "No, because this requires _you_."

She wanted to murder him, which was probably not the right attitude for a nursemaid to have. "Explain!"

"The connection to Voldemort cannot be broken so long as I carry the Mark, but it may be interrupted."

"And pray tell me _how _do we interrupt it?"

He was quite blunt, when it came to it. "Sex and a blood offering."

Hermione was aware her mouth had formed an 'O' of belated understanding. "You're serious?"

"Deadly. My wife was a good enough substitute the last time this happened."

"_This has happened before_?" Hermione didn't mean to shout her incredulity.

She was thoroughly disgusted. With Malfoy. With Voldemort. With any enterprise that operated on the assumption that pain, fear and suffering was the best way to ensure loyalty and obedience. She felt the familiar hatred and revulsion stir to the surface, nearly eclipsing her concern for Malfoy. "You people are mental to follow that cruel bastard."

"Life is cruel, Miss Granger," said Malfoy. He jerkily drew up one long leg, resting an arm across his knee. It was odd seeing him move without his usual fluidity. "Nature is cruel. Living is not for the weak. Only the fittest, the keenest of us survive to populate the future. It does the world a disservice to coddle the lesser beings, to promulgate their-"

Hermione waved a dismissive hand in the air. She'd heard villainous monologues before and was not impressed. "Yes, yes. Very good. Now, are you going to tell me how it happened the last time and what you did to fix it, or shall I just run with the assumption that the wolves on this cursed mountain are going to fatten come morning?"

She was quite sure Malfoy had probably hexed people into next year for being this rude to him.

"The last time, I was forced to attend a Ministry function and was unable to abscond without being observed. It's not a matter of what I did, but _who_. Narcissa, to be precise. In the cloak room at the Goyle residence. Followed by a shallow cut to her palm."

Hermione was silent for a moment. "Blood magic," she said, quietly, "enhanced by physical congress." He'd been right before. There was no remedy because she was not about to give him what he needed for the spell to be neutralised.

"And now, Mudblood, you leave me to die," he said.

* * *

Hermione didn't leave Malfoy and Malfoy didn't die, as much as he begged to at certain intervals.

Though, truth be told, she'd been sorely tempted to run away once or twice. Not because she couldn't stomach watching him, but because she knew she was apparently the only person who could ease his torment and she had made the decision not to.

He was right. She could not help him avoid the pain. What was required was...well, it was _ridiculous _frankly. And besides, she wasn't sure she trusted that he was telling her the truth. Malfoy was a very good liar. He was liable to tell her anything in order to achieve the upper hand in their situation.

He assumed he was handling their situation, but really, he was stranded just as she was; wandless and with no means to contact the world beyond their godforsaken mountain. He was a fugitive from the Dark _and_ the Light. He had so more to lose and more to fear than she did. And he _knew _that. He was helpless, left out in the cold, quite literally, with no way to even protect that which was most precious to him - his son.

With this realisation came a wave of understanding. And calm. In their temporary winter prison, Lucius Malfoy could menace her and threaten to harm her, but she was the only thing that stood between him and a death sentence or something close to it. She was the prize, his ticket, his shield and bargaining chip.

A clever man did not abuse his only chance at freedom and Lucius Malfoy was one of the cleverest.

Hermione looked at him a little differently, then, as he slept with his head in her lap. That had been the best position to keep him in when he seized. It allowed for the least amount of damage to his head. His hair was slicked back with perspiration. He twitched every so often, his abused muscles spasaming long after the final seizure had passed.

She laid her hand against his forehead and breathed a long, ragged sigh of relief when she felt cool, damp skin. Long minutes past. Malfoy's breathing eased and the tension fell from Hermione's shoulders. She shut her eyes and said her thanks, though to whom, she didn't know.

It was difficult _not_ to be moved by what she had witnessed that morning, for he had been immensely brave in taking his punishment. She didn't know for sure if he truly believed he'd been about to die, but she was pretty sure he'd wanted to.

He stirred, eyes opening. Not surprisingly, he was completely disoriented. "Cissa," he rasped.

"No, it's Hermione."

"Water.

She fetched more water for him and then helped him sip it. Her name apparently rang no bells. His brow furrowed for a moment, and then his expression turned to one of panic.

"My boy. They will try to take him. _You will help him_."

Hermione signed. Even in delirium, he barked orders. On this, she couldn't offer any real reassurance, merely placation. "I'm sure Draco will be fine. He's very resourceful. And he's not alone. He has his mother, doesn't he?"

Malfoy's eyes closed. "Yes." He nodded. "Cissa is with him." When his eyes open again, their expression was one of fear and bleakness. It was stunning in its authenticity. Hermione found herself riveted.

"They come for me now. Best that you leave." He was agitated, licking his dry lips and trying to sit up.

Hermione pushed him back down. "No one's coming, Malfoy. No one even knows we're here."

"Here is not where we are meant to be! But here is _known_. This is someone's special place or else the spell would not have brought us to it…"

Hermione processed that. He was right. They had Apparated there. That could only mean that the place had some meaning to either her or Malfoy..._or the young man that had happened upon them at the last minute._ That was it! This was _his _place! It held some meaning or connection to him, whether he was aware of it or not.

Which meant that they really were not safe and that the Death Eaters could very well be coming.

"Cissa," Malfoy said again.

Hermione turned her attention back to him. "No, Lucius, it's me. Hermione."

There was a brief moment of clarity. She knew this because the ice crept back into his eyes. It was tempered by sheer exhaustion, however. "You."

"Yes, me."

"Good."

To her surprise, he tried to pull her down next to him. Hermione immediately stiffened, confused and embarrassed and ever aware of the rules. The danger had passed and he was on his way to being well again. Their previous distance, caution and aversion had to be re-applied.

Or not. He wrapped one heavy arm around her waist and dragged her to him.

"Sleep," he slurred, his eyes already closed.

Merlin help her, she lay down next to him. She was, snotty, hungry, utterly exhausted and quite suddenly, very cold. He held her flush against him, her back pressed to his chest, her head pillowed on one of his arms. After a minute or two, his warmth seeped into her. His even breathing told her he was sound asleep.

_Bugger it all. _

Hermione shut her eyes and gave in to her exhaustion. You were entitled to seek what meager comforts you could, on a day like this.

* * *

My father used to tell me that Malfoys are not made, they are _born_.

But after more than forty-three years of living, I have discovered that that's a pile of Hippogriff shite. Yes, the magical talent and Pureblood lineage is there, but not the man.

Not yet.

The man is his _potential_.

I was seventeen when I first bent my knee in fealty to Lord Voldemort, and thank Merlin for it, because you might have noticed my legs shaking with fear had I been standing at the time.

I believed wholeheartedly in the cause. I would have died for it. To me, the notion of Pureblood supremacy is no mere theory. _It is fact_. Voldemort's ideas about how to promote that supremacy was not open to subjective scrutiny, however. His word was law, his view was _the_ view.

Identifying the choices available to me were easy. There were two paths I could have taken. Either I pledge my allegiance and enjoy the mixed blessings that come with being part of a wealthy, fringe-dwelling, elite with aspirations to revolution. Or I decline and face ostracision as a best case scenario, or most painful death as the worst.

Which path would have best seen out my potential, in terms of what it meant to _be _a Malfoy?

You bet your best broomstick I took the Mark. I took the wife they assigned me, took on whatever mantle they wanted to pin upon my person and I became the kind of Malfoy family patriarch my forebears would have been proud of.

But there are times (invariably quiet and solitary times) when I wonder if I truly have achieved my potential. My definition of a _worthwhile _life is one where my survival and that of my progeny is no longer the major consideration.

My life thus far has been one of subterfuge, concealment and occasional incomprehensible violence.

It has involved creating chaos, suffering and damage as a strategy. As a means to an end, Voldemort kept telling us. Only the end never came, and the chaos continued. And there was no well-being, no good life. Just the never-ending_ wait_ for one.

Voldemort's ideology only held value because of its potential to create a world where Purebloods lived the good life. That potential was never realised. Just as mine has never been realised.  
The question arises, then, whether it was the ideology that was flawed in the first place, or merely Voldemort's particular attempt to enforce it?

I do not like where my thoughts are taking me. I blame it on my recent misfortune that my mind seems so keen to test the boundaries of my darkest, most secret musings.

Well then. Where else shall I send my thoughts?

Unfortunately, the goings-on in the physical world are not providing me with any reassurance either. I register the pleasant fact that I am apparently alive and well, though I ache _everywhere_. I feel as though I've been trampled by a Centaur.

There is more to take in, however.

Young Hermione Granger is tucked into me like the smaller of a pair of spoons. My chin rests atop her curly head. My left leg is draped over the both of hers, effectively pinning her to me. It is my hand, however, that deserves the strictest admonishment.

It has worked its way under her bulky clothing and is caught in the soft vise that is the space between her breasts, cupping her left breast.

Instantly, I am hard. Painfully hard. I honestly cannot remember being this aroused in a very long time. I shut my eyes, wondering when and how my mature man's body was apparently replaced with that of an over-responsive whelp's.

It would be a welcome respite from my troubles to simply bed the girl, I suppose. Clearly (and rather disturbingly), she arouses me. I am not so intellectually dishonest to claim to not understand why. She is a healthy, young female. She is not unattractive nor unintelligent (nothing dampens my ardour like a stupid woman). Further, she continues to challenge my authority, which for some reason has added to my desire to demonstrate-in the clearest way possible-my mastery over her.

Would it be rape, then? Would that be the only way to bring her to heel?

Perhaps. As always, I am not a fan of sexual assault. I find successful _persuasion_ much more rewarding.

I tighten my hand around the soft, rounded weight of her breast. It fits perfectly into my hand, warm and supple and familiar in that base, primal way that men know about. I lower my head, seeking the fine skin of her neck, just behind her ear and the beguiling scent that to be found there. It is different with every woman.

My erection presses against her backside, grinding against her tailbone; so hard I imagine it may in fact be hurting her. I know it is hurting _me_.

I should cease this madness. This way lies complications.

Even so.

I feel her abruptly come awake and I hold her to me for those few, early seconds of wild, panicked struggle. It is a gamble. She will either balk and cry foul or her body's natural inclination will win out.

She lies stiff and still, her breathing fast and frightened. Ten seconds or so tick by. Ten seconds is apprehension, anything after that, I would submit, is anticipation.

No words. No protests. Free will given over.

_Thank you, Miss Granger. I will take what you would not have offered me only hours ago._

My mouth is upon her neck, upon that sweet-scented spot I had mulled over earlier. She breaks out into shivers.

I turn her towards me, taking her chin so I can seize her mouth. Her hands flatten over my bare chest, but she does not push; merely tests. Her passivity is not to my liking, but as with all novices, she will improve with time and experience.

It soon becomes apparent that she has no idea how to kiss, this girl of nineteen. Virgins are a damned nuisance, but they do have their charms. Though I am surely the last man in the world that should be the recipient of Miss Hermione's Granger's particular charms.

The world is so very silent. The wind is asleep. There is only the crackling of the Dragonfire and the enchanting little gasps of the girl beneath me.

I pull away so I can look at her. See what is happening. _Listen_ to what is happening. Fucking is a conversation, even when it is done in complete silence. You bed partner will tell you about his or her doubts, fears and longings. They tell you about how they have been treated before. They tell you what they want of you without speaking. And we do the same, of course. We are at our most vulnerable and I would argue, most honest, in those brief moments before orgasm is achieved. With a great deal of practice, one can manipulate this conversation. One can lie.

Hermione Granger's expression is not manufactured. The girl is completely without guile. She looks half out of her mind with terror.

Ah. It appears I am having a one-sided conversation.

I pretend to be hard of hearing as I rub my thumb over her cheek. Her jumper has ridden up, exposing a pale, flat belly and navel. I lower my head and kiss a prominent hip bone. She gasps and sucks in her stomach. I press my lips along the points of her ribcage and drag her clothing further up as I go, until her breasts are completely exposed and her arms are caught above her head. She is goose-flesh all over.

Further protests do not seem to be forthcoming, but that does not mean she isn't shouting them out to me.

Aesthetically, she is as close to perfect as can be for her particular size. There are about a dozen things I should like to do to her breasts, least of all, _taste _them, but I desist.

I do not enjoy a wasted conversation. She has nothing important to impart to me right now. I want her guilt to override her fear.

I pull her clothing down, managing not to graze her skin at all.

She sits up with her arms folded tightly across her middle, eyes downcast. Everything about her bearing tells me she is ashamed. Her face and neck are scarlet.

_Excellent. _

"You're um...well," she observed.

She's looking me in the eye now. Good girl. If I wasn't still in so much pain, I'd find her discomfiture terribly amusing.

"Apparently," I say. My voice is so hoarse, I scarcely recognise it.

She nods, licks her lips and manages to increase her blush. "Are we going to see a repeat performance of what happened last night?"

"I doubt it. The Dark Lord would not risk Summoning his Death Eaters again so soon." I hoped I was right.

"Good," she replied and then rose to her feet. A minute was spent simply standing there, wringing her hands. Honestly, the girl is as easy to read as a child's picture book.

"I'm going to get some fresh water," she informed me.

"Fine."

She walked to the door, and paused. "Malfoy?"

"Yes?"

"Don't do that again. If you do, I swear to you I will not support your application for amnesty when we return to the Ministry."

Ah, cleverly played. I stand. I nearly faint in the effort, but it's vital that I am on my feet when I say this. Her eyes lift. At my full height, the top of her head barely reaches my shoulders.

"And what happens if you ask me to touch you again?" It is a taunt, and I expect nothing more than a juvenile, knee-jerk response from her.

But she actually appears to seriously consider the question. Her returning stare is so direct it's almost disconcerting.

"Then I'm really not worth saving," she replies, with a shrug. And then she takes the metal bucket, opens the door and walks out into snow.


End file.
